


That Face in the Mirror

by jeanniebee



Category: Broadway RPF, Marvel, Real Person Fiction, Spider-Man (Comicverse), Spider-Man - All Media Types, Wicked - All Media Types, Wicked RPF
Genre: Broadway, Crossover, Superheroes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-10
Updated: 2015-07-15
Packaged: 2018-02-28 22:38:40
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 84,456
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2749724
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeanniebee/pseuds/jeanniebee
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Idina Menzel tries to move on after nearly losing everything during <a href="http://archiveofourown.org/works/1989657/chapters/4309278"><i><b>Witches and Spiders and Goblins</b></i></a>.  But she remains tormented by that story's events, and the personal and professional highs and lows of the last two years are exacting a heavy price.  Will a famous former co-star,  a menacing ex-suitor, a strange new costumed figure, a familiar red and blue costumed figure AND a deadly attack upon New York City push her over the edge?  And Idina kicks a <i>lot</i> more ass in this story than its predecessor.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Here's How it Starts

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Witches and Spiders and Goblins](https://archiveofourown.org/works/1989657) by [jeanniebee](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeanniebee/pseuds/jeanniebee). 



> The story is largely from Idina's POV like its predecessor, again, because it was more interesting and fun to write a story involving superheroes and villains from a third party "real life" perspective.
> 
> The timeline is late Spring 2015, between the closing of _If/Then_ 's Broadway run and the beginning of Idina's world tour. As with its predecessor, it is rated Teen and above because of the coarse language used throughout by the primary characters. Idina's "trucker mouth," is well documented. The other two primary characters do not talk that way in their source material BUT, I wanted the dialogue to be fairly realistic, and frankly, I think this is the way they would talk, even the hero. Hey, my fanfic, my rules.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> While Idina is melancholy about the closing of a chapter in her professional life, she eagerly looks forward to the next one with promises of exploiting her new crossover fame. However, with the events set into motion outside her control, is she only bound for disaster?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> For "Idina continuity," I tried to hew as close as I could to real events. Spider-Man continuity issues will be discussed in the notes to Chapter 2. 
> 
> And if you haven't read the prior story, Idina will generously bring you up to speed in Chapter 2 as well.

  
  


_It’s not every day you’re lucky enough to be knocked on your ass,_ the photographer thought after he stopped cursing, picked himself up from the pavement, and ran with a hobbled gait, ignoring the stabs of pain in his knees and elbows.

It began as an appropriate ending to an overall ugly day when he was flattened by a trio of punks running from the scene of their liquor store robbery. However, it rebounded magnificently upon seeing the costumed character they were hell bent on avoiding. After a string of epithets blasting his luck and deity, he heard what sounded like a bottle rocket scream overhead. Looking up, he saw a figure in black straddling a bat-shaped glider similar to those associated with the various costumed Goblins who had brought terror and mayhem to New York’s skies over the years. 

Yet this wasn’t any of the old Goblins _(how many of those damn things had there been, anyway?)_. This was the _new_ Goblin seen sporadically over the last month, but only photographed or filmed from afar by cell phones or glimpsed by security cameras that failed to provide a clearly defined image. Unlike prior larcenous Goblins, this one seemed rather altruistic, taking down petty criminals and minor super-villain wannabes rather than working in tandem with them. 

The flying figure continued its descent as it passed over the three men, then banked around to face them. Before they could split up, creating three separate moving targets, the Goblin hurled a small incendiary object to the ground just in front of them, unleashing a small, but not deadly, concussive blast and gas, dropping them to the ground coughing. Once the glider soft-landed, the Goblin stepped off and quickly moved toward them, pulling what appeared to be a fighting stick from its back. 

With the combatants' attention focused on each other, the photographer ducked into a nearby alleyway in the event this Goblin was violently averse to publicity. He zoomed in and snapped away once the gas cleared. _Finally – that asshole Peter Parker and the shitty Daily Bugle aren't going to get the first good shots of a new costumed character laying a smack down._ Parker's photography skills were considered marginal at best by everyone in the business, but his knack for being in the right place at the right time was legendary. But not tonight. 

Oddly, this Goblin didn’t appear as intimidating as earlier versions, with a slight build and no more than five and a half feet tall. Unlike its more colorful predecessors, this Goblin was sheathed primarily in black. The gloves were appropriately green, as was the portion of its face not obscured by a black hood. 

Only ten seconds were needed for a kick, a punch and one swing of the stick to render the trio unconscious. As the Goblin turned and walked back to the glider, he began talking, likely through a headset within the mask or the hood. Most of the dialogue was unintelligible, but he appeared to be contacting the police. Without further incident, the glider and its occupant rose vertically into the air before adjusting its angle and climbing into the night sky. 

Later, upon viewing and editing the images, the photographer gleefully pondered his upcoming windfall for the first close-ups of this new, but not-entirely-Green Goblin. Someone would surely pay handsomely for them - one of the papers, TMZ, CNN, Google. But one photo in particular suddenly captured his interest, demanding closer inspection. 

_Oh, **that's** a game changer,_ he thought, realizing the world’s perception of this new Goblin was going to be turned on its head.  


  
  
  
_It’s **really** gone._

The diminutive woman stared forlornly through the fencing at the flat, barren spot between 50th  & 51st streets. The absence of the massive concrete block that had rested above street level wedged between an apartment building and the Paramount Plaza tower left an unseemly gap, an open wound in New York’s Theater District. The paneling covering the Paramount's lower floors suggested a band-aid covering a huge, jagged gash. For months after her recent return to the city, she avoided this area, perhaps trying to delude herself that if she didn’t actually _see_ the fallow ground and the patchwork covering, the Gershwin would still be there, either pieced together from the wreckage of the old, or miraculously rebuilt anew. Fortunately, the American Airlines Theatre, where she was currently working, was far enough away that avoidance worked successfully with denial. However, as her mother was fond of saying, it was time to “put her big girl pants on,” and face it. 

Or maybe she was here simply to provide different answers to the relentless questioning. Had she seen it? What did she think? How did she feel? But how many variations of “no,” “It’s awful,” and “sad,” could she possibly devise? The subsequent follow-up questions _really_ gave her heartburn as they were all a form of “Have you talked to (or seen) _her_ since it happened?” The answer, always “No,” would unfailingly prompt “Why not?”, which would then revive the speculation that had dogged them both for more than ten years, that she and the other woman hated each other. It never stopped, no matter how many times they each tried putting it to rest because they denied the insatiably curious the pat, simple answer they wanted. Or for others, the deliciously salacious answer they craved. 

_As if!_

The truth, the real, honest, dreadfully dull truth, like most truths, was simply too complicated to fit into a sound bite or 140 characters. 

Returning to the matter at hand, it wasn't just the Gershwin's absence troubling her. It was _how_ it met its demise that was truly galling. It was not the victim of a natural disaster, a terrible accident, an Act of God, or even obsolescence. No, it was deliberately destroyed by a costumed mad man for reasons never fully explained by the Powers That Be, except, apparently, to kill other costumed mad men. 

Still, in the final analysis, the Gershwin was just part of a building, ultimately replaceable. _Wicked_ lived on, the musical phenomenon relocating to the Lyric Theatre on West 42nd, coincidentally down the street from the American Airlines Theatre towards 7th Avenue. Considered a cavernous barn by some, it was the one with a capacity comparable to the Gershwin. Ironically, under its previous name (the Foxwoods), the Lyric was home to a weird, gaudy, controversial superhero musical that closed the prior year after losing tens of millions of dollars. The historic memorabilia housed at the Gershwin, also lost, was important, but still a collection of “things.” The real tragedy was that people died in this catastrophe. Clearing the rubble unveiled the bodies of the overnight security and maintenance staff – likely murdered by the same masked lunatic who destroyed the theater. _He probably didn’t even have a motive. All of those people are fucking crazy - pardon my French. We’re just ants to them, collateral damage in their fights._ City administrators talked more about regulating the costumed panhandlers in Times Square than the ones who were _**really**_ dangerous. 

A large sign attached to the fencing declared “Coming Soon! A New Gershwin!” but the definition of “soon” would likely prove elastic. The destruction of a New York City landmark, in which lives were lost, at the hands of super powered people whose identities were unknown and therefore unable to be held accountable for the conflagration drew the usual share of lawyers, aggrieved parties, and con artists smelling a payday. Throwing in several insurance companies and their teams of lawyers guaranteed no resolution for the foreseeable future. 

Of course, the Gershwin would be rebuilt eventually, likely more resplendent than before. But it would no longer be home to the ghosts of performances past who lingered even after various renovations over the years. It had showcased some of the most enduring musicals of all time, such as _The King and I, Show Boat, Singin’ in the Rain, Fiddler on the Roof_ and _Oklahoma_ (and one of the most infamous in _Via Galactica_ , of which the less said the better). Frank Sinatra, Sammy Davis, Jr., and Ella Fitzgerald were just a small sample of the legends who graced its stage and delighted audiences over its 40-year plus history. 

It was also where, of course, _Wicked_ reigned for more than a decade as one of the history's most popular Broadway shows, becoming a cultural sensation, spinning off several simultaneous productions around the world, and turning its original leading ladies from modest stars into icons. They now had that peculiar, double-edged sword of immortality reserved for those who portrayed characters so memorable the fragile, flawed, flesh and blood people who breathed life into them were sometimes afterthoughts in the minds of the devotees. 

But for her, it was the personal memories, the opening night realization she had helped birth something truly special; the hair flipping herniation of two discs in her neck; an infamous night of Vicodin induced incoherence; the tear-laden final performance; expressions of love and devotion alternating with vicious, biting disagreements; friendships forged, broken, rebuilt, blown apart, painfully grafted back together, _ad infinitum_. The Gershwin hosted them all. Metaphoric blood, as well as literal sweat and tears had been shed there. 

But it was all reduced to dust in yet another super-powered grudge match. Of course, what distinguished _this_ particular super-powered grudge match was the presence of a _very_ familiar face in the midst of the festivities. 

_Gotta hand it to you, Dee – this time you really did bring the house down, didn’t you? Maybe in a weird way it was fitting one of us was there at the end. Still - why? **Why the hell were you with those maniacs in the first place?** Honestly - Spider-Man and the Green Goblin? Any sane New Yorker, past or present, knows to stay away from them, especially during one of those stupid schoolyard brawls they’ve had for years! I just don’t get it._

And there was something else she had avoided since returning to New York. But she wasn’t the only one evading it, was she? 

After pulling out her phone, she sighed and stared at it for a minute and a half before convincing the fingers on her other hand to start texting. _Why does it have to be me? It wouldn’t hurt if someone else put her big girl pants on too, ya know._

  
  
_It’s **finally** gone._

The dark-haired woman stood on the corner of 7th Avenue and 46th Street absorbing a panoramic view of the bright, blinking, gaudy mecca that was Times Square, seeking a large familiar face and noting its absence with some melancholy. 

For nearly a year a gargantuan version of the frequently used photo shot of her with splayed fingers and wide-open mouth belting “Always Starting Over,” _If/Then_ 's powerful 11 o’clock number, shared a corner with _Beautiful_ overlooking the Square. “See Broadway’s Biggest Star – LIVE!” it demanded of the peasantry who wandered within its shadow. But she was now banished by _Dr. Zhivago_ , and no longer “Broadway’s Biggest Star.” _That_ title was doubtlessly bequeathed to a certain little blonde limelight hog now in town. 

_Fuck it. Let her have it,_ Idina Menzel mused, turning her back to the Square and walking down 46th Street to the Richard Rodgers Theatre. _The past is in the past, and I have a tour to get ready for. Shit, if not a Wicked line then it’s a Frozen lyric rattling around in my head. Well, those lyrics have made me a lot of money lately, so I guess I don’t mind them lingering. As long as I'm not singing them in 20 degree weather and fucking up in front of the entire world. Oy vey, I thought Oscar night was going to be my claim to shame._

It took little time for the Rodgers to be stripped of all evidence it had been her second home for the previous year. The mammoth “IF/THEN” sign planted on the roof had vanished, as well as all of the other signs, reviews and declarations, including the “IDINA MENZEL IS A BLAZING SUPERNOVA” quote from the _Hollywood Reporter_. All of the cast paintings covering the theater doors, used in selfies by fans in lieu of the actual actors, were gone, supplanted by a fresh coat of white paint that stood ready to be adorned with promotions for the Rodgers' next tenant, Lin-Manuel Miranda's _Hamilton_. Such was the transitory nature of fame. 

However, she _didn’t_ miss that painted advertisement along the entire theater wall facing the Marriott Marquis with its 25 foot (if not taller) representations of the cast, including Giant Idinas. Those were fucking scary, capable of causing small children and those under the influence to shit their pants. 

Approaching the Rodgers’ stage door and not seeing the usual throng awaiting her arrival before the show was bittersweet. For more than a year, she would steel herself like a linebacker breaking through a defensive line, extra speed in her step to navigate through the picture and autograph seekers as expeditiously as possible, hopefully without seeming like a stuck-up ungrateful bitch. Sometimes, she could stealthily weave in and out like a ninja, making it inside just as people realized who she was, touching off a mad rush to the stage door as it closed in front of them. 

Of course, the absence of promotional material and lack of an adoring stage door mob hardly meant she was yesterday’s news. Her upcoming world tour (the response to its announcement crashed her web site) would provide a great opportunity to exploit her newly earned crossover star status, and was doing well in pre-sales. She had also scored a TV pilot deal with Ellen Degeneres' production company, and there was no end in sight to _Frozen_ -mania, with a new animated short, continued (if premature - the Mouse didn't take kindly to her own blundering "announcement") talk of a full-fledged sequel, and the inevitable countdown to the Broadway musical. Although she jokingly expressed a desire to reprise Elsa on stage, she knew approaching 50 years old by first curtain guaranteed the casting of a younger actress who would look better as a blonde – _and_ who could dance. 

She regretted her decision to return before the stage door even closed. Ostensibly, she wanted to collect her remaining possessions from her dressing room, but could have easily accomplished that task earlier. No, the truth was she wanted to be in the theater when it was devoid of the other cast and crew, to take one last quiet, contemplative, sentimental look around. Not only did she spend more than a year in this place, but it was almost four years since producer David Stone and director Michael Grief approached Brian Yorkey and Tom Kitt about “developing something for Idina,” bringing her into the project from the beginning. Still, she already suffered from the usual depression that gripped performers upon their show closing, so what the fuck (how appropriate) was today was going to accomplish? Would this visit really provide closure, or was she just looking for an excuse to deepen and prolong her wallowing? _How very Jewish of me._

The other dressing rooms were emptied, shut, locked and awaiting their next occupants, with only her own footsteps and background noise from the janitorial staff for company. No longer did cast members wander in and out of open doors, visiting and mooching each other’s edible goodies sent to the theater by fans. No more did the endearingly goofy James Snyder ( _his_ fan gifts, in addition to snacks, included a variety of _Star Wars_ toys), sit just inside his door, strumming his guitar or chase after people for his “vlog.” No more was she attacked, embraced and sniffed by relentless hugging machine Jenn Colella. There would be no more face painting with Walker between shows and no more of the usual chaos before Showtime as something inevitably was always missing or not working correctly, be it the 3rd show or 300th. Rather than the company of her fellow players, there were only the faint echoes of boisterous camaraderie. 

_I’m going to miss these people so much. They were like family and I might never see many of them again, particularly if I move back to LA. While it's time was done, this show was my salvation, providing me with structure and a means of working through the torment of the last two years._ She included them in her Christmas album's dedication for “taking care of my heart,” a euphemism for “keeping me from slitting my wrists and drowning my sorrows in a fifth of vodka every night while digging out of the wreckage of my failed marriage.” They were also of tremendous comfort after that infamous night the Gershwin was destroyed. However, she didn't mind a break from the eight shows a week grind, which taxed the body more at 43 than 25 (when she started _Rent_ ), and was further complicated by single motherhood. But that grind, coupled with personal appearances and recording her Christmas album, almost kept her too tired and busy to invest in much self-pity and morbid contemplation. And while she didn't spend the time with him she wanted, she could still get up with Walker most mornings, make him breakfast (marginally), and take him to school. The timing of the upcoming tour ( _The Idina Menzel World Tour – that is just so fucking awesome to say!_ ) had worked out well, as he would be out of school and able to accompany her. She still constantly worried about her burgeoning career’s impact on Walker, every day counting the ways she sucked as a mother, but as she had learned months ago when she nearly lost everything, many of her problems were good problems to have. 

"It's a Girl!" screamed a headline from a copy of the _New York Post_ on a nearby chair, causing her to briefly rack her brain attempting to remember any pregnant celebrity, but she came up blank. _Gotta love the Post. You can’t miss those headlines._

As she visited the stage one last time, she saw that most of the set pieces had been struck, but the crosswalk where she first appeared during the opening still stood. She ascended the stairs, strode to her familiar position, leaned over the rail and stared at 1,300 empty red seats, trying to recapture the memories of when they each had a butt in them. 

_This was **MY** show. Written for **ME**. Will this ever happen again? _ Ironically, she reflected back to _Wicked_ 's workshop and rehearsals, when she constantly feared being fired as her voice struggled to consistently deliver the high notes, not to mention her stumbling and lack of grace even with the limited amount of movement the choreography asked of her. She desperately tried to please so many people, craved their approval, but left rehearsal every night feeling she let everyone down and her name would disappear from the sign-in sheet the next morning. It didn’t help working every day next to Miss Perfect and Beloved by All who made _everything_ look effortless. There was no doubt who the Queen was those days. But things were different now. This latest show had been all about _her._ _She_ was Queen of this particular hill and it didn't fucking matter that she still couldn’t dance a lick. _But a Queen upon her throne goes to bed alone_ , she thought, twisting one of the show’s lyrics. 

From first preview to closing night an explosive cheer rang out after her first spoken line (“Hey, it’s me”) as the spotlight singularly highlighted her. It unfailingly gave her goose bumps because that was _her_ moment, unlike the cheers closing the first act or the curtain calls shared with the rest of the cast. At that moment the theater spoke to _her_ in unison, saying “We are happy to see _**you**_ , Idina. We love _**you**_.” At a time when love seemed elusive, that was a daily reaffirmation, particularly the first time she was back after the so-called “Gershwin Thing,” a convenient nomenclature for the events surrounding the destruction of the Gershwin Theatre and her life threatening injuries. 

For a Broadway diva and world famous entertainer, Idina Menzel was considered relatively down to earth and accessible. Of course, she was _also_ temperamental, neurotic, moody, overly competitive, and prone to unleash a torrent of paint-peeling expletives when provoked, traits not from Idina Menzel the “Star,” but Idina Menzel the loud, bawdy, insecure Jewish girl from Long Island. But two topics were radioactive, and the conversationalist bringing up either would receive a hard stare or a quick, annoyed dismissal, and woe to those failing to pick up either cue. Other than family, only Anthony Rapp, her old friend and cast mate, seemed able to cross the boundaries she rigorously enforced with everyone else. One of those topics was the Gershwin Thing. 

Returning to work only four weeks after the Gershwin Thing was cited by some as evidence of her dedication and work ethic, and by others, including those closest to her, of her lunacy. When Spider-Man rushed her to Lenox Hill Hospital that night, she was in critical condition, covered with bruises, abrasions and ligature marks from being tied up and nearly strangled by a super-villain. More alarmingly, she had been hit twice by errant police fire while on the Green Goblin's glider, crashing into Central Park Lake when the glider’s power source failed. Spider-Man's covering of her bullet wounds with his webbing kept her from bleeding to death. Some expressed sentiment she shouldn’t have returned to the show at all, and use the time after rehabilitation to vanish from the public eye with Walker and rest up for her tour. 

But Idina would have none of it. She felt too proprietary of the show and was determined to complete her contractual obligation, particularly since so many people relied on its continued run for the work. “I didn’t get shot in the throat,” was one of her oft-cited rationalizations. She was grudgingly cleared when it became apparent returning to the stage was the only way to preserve _everyone’s_ sanity, as her agitation increased the longer she remained idle. During her first two weeks back, she limped noticeably, used a cane, and called out on the Wednesday and Saturday matinees. Fortunately, the physical infirmity was irrelevant to her character as portrayed, although some scenes required modification to accommodate her decreased mobility, and she was forbidden to climb to the crosswalk. Those initial shows were rocky, but everyone, including the audience, was very forgiving, typically greeting her with a standing ovation in her introductory scene, which always brought her to tears. Of course, Spider-Man himself showed up at the stage door one night and spooked the shit out of her, because that was just the kind of dick he was. 

Coming back was the medicine needed, because amazingly, within a month, in addition to a full recovery, she actually felt _better_ , physically and vocally, than she had in years. Unfortunately, there was a trade-off in the form of intense headaches and the return of the nightmares that had haunted her in the aftermath of that terrifying night. Her doctor attributed them to a combination of depression from the trauma and her show's end, and the stress of preparing for the tour. While the medication prescibed caused the dreams to abate for a time, they slowly and intermittenly crept back into her subconscious. 

She took one last look around the vacant theater before proceeding to her dressing room for her remaining personal items. Not much was left, some framed pictures, a few supplies, drawings she received from children during the show's run that she posted on her walls, and a small amount of Elsa and Wicked Witch memorabilia. Collectively it was nothing more than a couple of boxes she could easily carry to her car. 

But the first framed picture she pulled from the shelf brought a sudden halt to her task, prompting her to sit and take another respite as she let the memories it unearthed play over again in her mind. It was of Walker and Spider-Man together, taken when the webslinger visited Walker’s school at Idina’s request. Both gave the camera the “thwip” sign with their left hand, Walker standing, Spider-Man on one knee. Of course, "Spidey," ever the comedian, also slyly gave Walker a pair of rabbit ears with his other hand. She smiled, remembering how excited Walker was to meet Spider-Man, and the wall crawler turned on the charm to make the most of the experience for everyone. _Peter seems like such a natural with children, it's a shame he doesn't have any of his own. He still acts like one, but I suspect some of that is just the wall of bullshit he builds to protect himself._

It was ironic that for years, she considered herself fortunate to have avoided any significant encounters with New York’s costumed people. During her entire _Wicked_ run, and the time she and Taye lived in the city, she never personally encountered one - only seeing them from a distance. But now, she felt hopelessly intertwined with them. 

That led into the second off-limits topic when talking with Idina – her social life. Or perhaps more accurately, her lack of one. 

And most of that was due to none other than Norman Osborn, the motherfucking Green Goblin himself. 

  
Coming up in **Chapter 2 - If Only You'd Known** : Idina revisits her encounters with Spider-Man and the Green Goblin – and receives a dinner invitation from the one person who just might put her on edge more than the two of them combined.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Here we go again.
> 
> _**Witches and Spiders and Goblins**_ was first conceived simply as "What if the Green Goblin was in love with Idina Menzel?" and morphed into - what it became. I didn't delusionally believe anyone wanted a sequel, but the little demons (or goblins) in my head kept talking, and the disparate threads left behind in that story started coalescing into another. As it progressed, however, it took a different and darker turn than planned and into directions not originally anticipated. I wasn't trying to "say" anything with it - that's just where it took me.


	2. If Only You'd Known

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Idina generously catches the reader up to date (because she's just that kind of person) with some of the events of _Witches and Spiders and Goblins_ , for those who don't feel like plunging into the 50,000+ word text. We also follow up on threads suggested in the final chapter of the previous story as Idina has two more notable encounters with New York's Friendly Neighborhood Superhero AND gets disturbing news that could have significant ramifications later. She also gets some helpful advice from Aunt May (who is NOT Marisa Tomei in this version, just so you know).

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> These stories follow a customized (i.e. I pick and choose the elements I want and make up the rest) version of Spider-Man's _**comic book**_ continuity, not movie continuity. Peter and Mary Jane, while once engaged, never married. Harry Osborn stayed dead. _Civil War_ and everything after it never happened. Spider-Man is in his 30's - not the perpetual 25 year-old man-child Marvel peddle hims as. He's also much more cavalier with his language than in the source material. First of all, he's a native New Yorker, from Queens, and second, after all of these years of dealing with humanity's worst, he's more hard-bitten and cynical, and his speech reflects it.

  


_No good deed goes unpunished_.

Packing away the few remaining trinkets in her dressing room after _If/Then_ 's closing, the irony of that line in the context of recent events struck her. While in use long before _Wicked_ co-opted it, it appropriately summarized how she was dragged into the dark and dangerous world of costumed super people. 

_Norman Fucking Osborn._

Not his real middle name of course, but it suited him perfectly. 

_Why didn’t I end it after that first dinner? When he asked me out again, I could have said "thanks for the generous donation, but I'm not ready for this right now.” **Why didn't I say that**? Talk about an if/then moment_. 

It seemed an innocent, if unbelievable request at the time several months ago. Norman Osborn, founder and CEO of Oscorp, a biological research and chemical engineering firm, offered to contribute $500,000 to her foundation, A BroaderWay, in exchange for a dinner date - no strings attached. Knowing nothing about the man, she performed her own online research and one of her managers paid for a background check. 

_I really thought I was careful! I researched him more than any other man who'd asked me out!_

He definitely came with baggage, particularly an infamous feud with Spider-Man and a drug-addicted son, Harry, who dressed up as a notorious super-villain before his addictions killed him. His business reputation had more than a few detractors. A gap in Norman's personal history when he was believed dead, but living anonymously overseas, was also troubling. A reporter once accused Norman himself of being the Green Goblin. _Warning signs? No shit! Warning signs out the ass_! 

Still, he would hardly be the first self-made man to acquire enemies and spawn tales of dubious credibility along the way to his first billion. How much carnage did the old robber barons like Morgan, Carnegie, and Rockefeller, or tech wizards like Gates and Jobs leave behind in building their empires? The feud with Spider-Man? Regardless of “Spidey's” popularity in certain circles (including those in the creative community who related to his inconoclastic reputation), he was still a questionable character operating outside the law. Spider-Man was singularly responsible for Harry Osborn's various incarcerations and institutionalizations, and even present at Harry's death, so the elder Osborn’s hatred of the man seemed honest. Norman being the original Goblin? Proven to be nothing but speculation based upon Harry's misdeeds. 

Osborn had been a single parent as complications from Harry's birth claimed his spouse's life, which, coupled with ultimately losing his son, made him relatable and sympathetic. He was genuinely charming, with a sly sense of humor, and appeared more open minded about the arts and social issues than she expected from a man in his position. Coincidentally, their initial date also introduced her to Peter Parker, who confronted Osborn that night about vandalism at various Oscorp facilities. The first impression _he_ made was of a smug, arrogant, immature, obnoxious prick. 

_So much for first impressions._

_Not that Peter **can't** occasionally be a smug, arrogant, immature, obnoxious prick._

Maybe her judgment had been dulled by loneliness and vulnerability. Maybe she didn't want to appear so mercenary as to dine with the man, take his money, and wave good-bye. There are not-so-nice names for those people. And while she adored her theater colleagues and considered them family, she missed adult companionship founded on something other than show business. He was amused by her raunchiness, her silly, cackling laugh, and her lapses in judgment and discretion, perhaps because they sharply contrasted to the formal, controlled personality _he_ presented to the world. Although an accomplished man, he still seemed genuinely awed by _her_. He enjoyed her company for its sake alone, needing nothing from her beyond that. He certainly didn't need her money, wasn't interested in heightening his public profile, and unlike other men, was unintimidated by her strong, outspoken personality. He was also unperturbed that her son was her priority relationship, with Walker’s needs superseding their own time together, an empathy she attributed to the loss of _his_ son.

Their relationship certainly wasn’t popular with her friends, which Anthony Rapp made clear in one infamous conversation. But goddammit, it was _her_ life, and people in her circles weren't fond of corporate executives anyway. No one was going to tell a 43-year-old woman whom life had kicked in the ass a time or two or three what kind of man was best for her. 

Still, she was an astute enough observer of human behavior, particularly of men, to note Osborn's composed exterior required no small effort to maintain. A darkness surrounded him, within which were secrets he zealously protected. The occasional flashes of anger and chilling looks he gave those who displeased him were clues to the explosive temperament lurking just beneath the surface. While he addressed many of her questions about his life, she made clear he needed to be more forthcoming for their relationship to continue.

As fate would have it, he didn't have to be. Professor Miles Warren, aka the Jackal, an old enemy of both Osborn and Spider-Man, rendered it moot. He kidnapped her to lure Osborn to the Gershwin Theatre and exact vengeance for events surrounding a woman named Gwen Stacy. Not content to simply use her as a pawn, he took great pleasure in terrifying, ridiculing, taunting and belittling her throughout the experience, ensuring her that regardless of Osborn's compliance with his demands, she would die that night. She endured the torment for hours, fearing she would never see Walker or her other loved ones again. However, Warren didn't anticipate Osborn subverting his pride and ego to turn to Spider-Man for help. During the ensuing confrontation, Norman Osborn's secrets were laid bare, and she saw the psychotic monster known as the Green Goblin in all of his murderous fury. After killing the Jackal, Osborn turned his rage on Spider-Man as the Gershwin collapsed around them, forcing her to inject herself into the middle of a vicious and deadly blood feud that had raged for more than 15 years, claiming at least two lives as collateral damage in Gwen Stacy and Norman's son. Hers would have been another had Spider-Man not rushed her to the hospital after she was accidentally shot by police trying to bring down the Goblin. 

Her last contact with Osborn was the second day after the "Gershwin Thing" when he visited her in the hospital just long enough for her to formally terminate the relationship, as if it wasn't already a certainty. Still, he kept his word about covering all of her uninsured medical expenses. 

Due to an unnerving conversation with an Agent Coulson from SHIELD, and her desires to protect her family and put the incident behind her, she issued a statement that she would _not_ discuss what happened at the Gershwin with _anyone_. Only one instance of her walking out of an interview confirmed she would be unyielding on the matter. Only her sister and her therapist heard anything remotely approaching the true story. 

Still, she expected, and would have accepted, an “I told you so” from Anthony. His objections were based on hearsay and speculation, but ultimately accurate. Yet he never said _a word_. When he visited her in the hospital, she collapsed in his arms, wailing, choking out an admission he was right and she was sorry. He merely shushed her and held her in a strong embrace as long as needed. 

Once learning what Norman Osborn really was, it was a short jump to realizing the man confronting him that first night, Peter Parker, was likely more than _he_ appeared to be as well. That didn’t concern her, as she never cared to see him again. She also needed to know nothing more about Spider-Man, although she wished she could have thanked him in person, rather than as part of a press release, for saving her life. 

But Gwen Stacy's memory continued troubling her. The Jackal’s maniacal ravings made clear Gwen's fate was at the core of that entire nightmare. Idina knew closure would elude her until she learned exactly _who_ Gwen was and why she figured so prominently in that super powered grudge match. Her efforts were frustrated until she acquired Empire State University yearbooks from over 15 years past. One of those books included a photo of several students in a campus coffee shop, including Harry Osborn and a pair of young lovers named Gwen Stacy and Peter Parker. It was the same Peter Parker Norman claimed had betrayed Harry, the same Peter Parker who made an unwelcome appearance, seemingly out of thin air, at Norman and Idina's initial dinner date. The seething contempt between Norman and Peter that night was palpable. When Spider-Man and the Green Goblin brutally clashed at the Gershwin, it was _Spider-Man_ venting grief and rage over the deaths of Gwen and Harry, holding _Norman_ responsible. Knowing Norman was the Goblin, it was a short distance to Spider-Man's true identity. 

It was an awkward moment when she arrived on Peter’s doorstep with the yearbook. She debated for several days prior whether she should, as it was an invasion of the man’s privacy. Wasn't he entitled to his secrets? Isn't everyone? Hadn’t he already paid dearly for the life he led? He didn’t need an uninvited guest announcing “Hi! I know you’re Spider-Man!” But, she desperately needed closure, hoping that would ease the torment and nightmares she was experiencing. She also felt it essential to personally express her gratitude to Peter, a gesture even more critical once she learned he was at the Gershwin that night at Norman’s request, and knowing what Norman had taken from him. 

Although it was an uneasy conversation, she felt it concluded with them, if not friends, at least “friendly,” with Peter also acknowledging the role she played in getting _him_ out of the Gershwin alive that night. They tentatively agreed on a mutual set of favors - Walker meeting Spider-Man, and Idina treating Peter and his Aunt May to a show and dinner afterwards. 

  


Shuttling between divorced parents, and living primarily with a mother whose surging career required Walker Nathaniel Diggs to spend a considerable amount of time with sitters and other caregivers, was difficult for a five-year-old boy, regardless of economic status. Idina knew that while he was excited about accompanying her on the world tour, he was growing increasingly apprehensive about spending so much time away from home, his father and his friends, often on a plane or bus. Even while accompanying Idina on tour, Walker periodically had frantic “I don’t want my mommy to sing!” moments, which always ripped out her heart. No matter how she tried to make it up to him, convince him how important he was to her, and how she couldn't imagine life without him, he still needed a periodic boost from someone besides his mother. 

_He_ certainly wasn’t easy to contact. Just turning on the TV told her how busy he was, and the gravity of the circumstances. She wondered if she had the right to ask him for anything so "pedestrian." Still, he said he would do it, so she left a message on his phone...and waited. 

Peter kept his word. It was funny how casually she thought of him as “Peter,” reminding herself NOT to address him as such when he was in costume among the public. When they finally talked, they devised the plan she presented to Walker's school administrators. Dealing with _them_ , leery of a visit from a "costumed vigilante," as one described him, was more difficult than dealing with said vigilante. But, being a world famous diva whose favor, and purchasing power, was important to service providers came in handy. 

Curiosity compelled her to sit in the back of the classroom that day, telling Walker she wanted to see what he was learning. Just before lunchtime the teacher announced the arrival of a "special guest." Of course, when Spider-Man arrived, his bona fides were immediately questioned, but a brief walk up a wall and along the ceiling, snagging a couple of the more vocal young skeptics with his webbing, quieted all doubters. 

Why was he here? "To visit my good buddy Walker Diggs!" he exclaimed, pointing to the young man, whose face glowed after learning Spider-Man considered him a "buddy." Then came the wild embellishments, with gusto and gesticulations about Walker's mother beating up the Green Goblin and now he was more scared of her than any of his supervillains, which was why he couldn't tell her "no" when she asked him to visit the school. This version of events delighted everyone in the room judging by the ripples of high pitched laughter - except Walker’s mother. Idina smiled weakly and gently waved in acknowledgement at the glowing little faces turning to her during the narrative. No matter how well-intentioned Spider-Man’s humor, she feared it would lead to curiosity and questions as to the real course of that that night's events. She also wished Peter would stop playing the self-deprecating clown pretending to skate by only on luck, and take some credit for being the smart, brave, selfless, heroic man he really was. Not that she'd tell him that. 

After 30 minutes of questions from an enthusiastic audience, Spider-Man tried slipping away under the auspices of "looking for the Rhino." Before he could turn to leave, Walker launched himself across the room and latched onto Spidey's leg. 

“Whoa, dude! I’ve had supervillains hit me with less force than that! You wouldn’t happen to be on the Jets' practice squad would you?” 

“Spider-Man! Spider-Man! Can we go web swinging?” 

“Uh,” Spider-Man hesitated, looking at Idina. “What does your mother say?” 

“ _Plllleeeeeeeeease_ , Mommy?” 

Idina's brow furrowed, eyes narrowed, and a trace of a scowl appeared on her face. Even a fearless web-slinging superhero cringed when on the receiving end of a Mama Bear in full protective mode look. 

“ _Where_ would you take him, Spider-Man?” Idina asked in a slow, measured tone, daring him to answer wrong. 

“Just around the block, ma’am.” 

_Ma’am? **MA’AM**? Even under that mask I see you smirking you little schmuck_. 

“ _Just_ around the block?” She asked, skepticism rising. 

“Yes, _**Ma’am**_! I’ve given lots of kids rides over the years. You've nothing to worry about.” 

_Ma'am. Keep digging that hole deeper, "Spidey."_ “I don’t know about this. What if some super-villain attacks you? Or you see a robbery in progress? Or there's a fire?” 

"I'll make sure he has on clean underwear." 

"I'm glad you think this is funny, Spider-Man, but..." 

By now, the rest of the class picked up on Idina’s reluctance and responded with a chorus of boos and giggles. 

_What the - ? I’m being booed? By five-year-olds? They're siding with a man who runs around in public in red and blue jammies? Well, they are five-year-olds. Shit. I sound like a stereotypical mom. I thought I was too cool for that._

“Now kids, be nice,” Spider-Man gently chided. “She’ll hear plenty of _that_ when she goes on tour.” 

Only being in the presence of a room full of small children and their teacher precluded her from going full-Idina on the Wall Crawler. Sensing she was on the losing end of the debate, she muttered "fine, fine," and emphasized " _only_ around the block. _Got that?_ " 

Of course, she had a good idea how likely _that_ directive would be followed.

After more time than necessary to simply web sling "around the block," Spider-Man returned with a beaming Walker, who by-passed his mother and went straight to his friends who were eager to vicariously re-live his experience. After waiving good-bye to the class, Spider-Man departed. Knowing the difficulty in contacting him, Idina followed him out the door and after some cajoling, convinced him to join her in the teacher’s lounge for coffee to follow up on another bit of old business. As classes had resumed, they were alone in the lounge.

“Wow. These Keurig machines are like, the coolest things,” Spider-Man said, tilting his head to closely examine the steady stream of coffee coming from the receptacle holding the small perforated cup of grounds. “Wish I had one.” 

“For someone who spends a lot of time swinging all over the city, you don’t get out much, do you?” she asked, uncertain if his fascination with a common kitchen gadget should be taken at face value. 

“Hey - the only coffee maker at the _Daily Bugle_ was a Mr. Coffee J. Jonah Jameson won from Joe DiMaggio in a poker game, and that stopped working when you were still asking people to moo with you,” Spider-Man countered as the two of them sat at a table. 

“Someone hasn’t accepted my offer of dinner and a show for himself and his aunt,” she casually reminded him of their quid pro quo. 

Spider-Man fidgeted nervously as he sipped his coffee, taking longer than usual to respond for someone for whom rapid fire quips were as normal as breathing. “I told you Aunt May wanted to meet you because I figured if I didn’t suggest _something_ when you mentioned a favor, you’d send me a fruit basket, and I really hate those. I didn’t think you were serious. I thought it was one of those things celebrities say because they don’t expect or want to see or hear from you again and if they do they call security.” 

“So you’re saying your Aunt _doesn’t_ want to meet me?”

“I didn’t say that. I just think she likes Kristin better.”

By now, Idina had learned not to fall for Spider-Man’s “bait and switch” insults intended to punch a button and change the topic of conversation from something he was uncomfortable discussing. 

“I wouldn’t offered if I didn’t want you to accept. The show’s closing soon so you don’t have much time.” 

“I don’t take things from people - particularly not for what I do as Spider-Man.”

“Oh **please** , get that stick out of your ass. You’re not _taking_ anything other than what I WANT to _give_ you in the first place. I told you I would like to be friends, and this is something friends do for and with each other. Then again, it's your nature to be a dick to everyone who tries being nice to you because you’re so neurotic and insecure you don’t think you deserve it and it justifies your constant guilt tripping.” She didn't need x-ray vision to see under the mask to know her volley landed a direct hit. Of course, Spider-Man recovered quickly. 

“Oh, _I’m_ neurotic and insecure? I'll bet you leave the stage every night running to your dressing room and bawling your eyes out, telling yourself how much you sucked. _Particularly_ after that New Year's Eve debacle!” 

_Ouch!_ The nastiness of that retort told her she slammed him with a truth he wasn't used to hearing. Fine. She could do this any day of the week and twice on Wednesday and Saturday. “Don’t change the subject. I'll see through your bullshit and raise you one. I meant it when I said I wanted to meet your Aunt. So, do it for **her**. I’ll bet she’d love a nice evening out. Don’t you think she deserves one for all the times she wiped your nose and ass?” 

“You are so gross I don’t want to eat at the same table with you. Do you kiss your son with that mouth?” 

“And if you don’t agree, I will personally show up on her doorstep and tell her she’s won a contest.” 

“You wouldn’t.” 

“Try me, motherfucker.” 

“You are a wicked witch indeed.” 

“And don’t you forget it.” 

She smirked and basked in her triumph as one of the teachers walked into the lounge. Noticing the costumed superhero drinking coffee, the teacher uttered an "oh my god,” and quickly departed. Spider-Man turned to Idina and said “I guess people aren’t used to seeing you without a lot of make-up.” 

  
After buckling Walker into his car seat and sliding behind the wheel, she turned around and asked in a no-nonsense tone “All right, Walker, where did Spider-Man _really_ take you?”

Prior to the question the young man was heavily involved in conducting both sides of a conversation between two dinosaurs, but then went abruptly silent. Sensing his mother's unrelenting stare, he quietly replied "around the block." 

"Is that what Spider-Man told you to say?" 

Walker remained quiet and returned his attention to his dinosaurs. 

“Walker, I know Spider-Man didn’t just take you around the block. One, you were gone too long, and two, believe it or not, I KNOW Spider-Man well enough to know how sneaky he is. You’d better tell Mommy the truth.” 

“The top of the Empire State Building!” Walker exclaimed with such excitement it was apparent he was thrilled to finally confess. “ _It was so cool!_ I want to do it again!” 

“Oh, I’ll just bet you do.” She scowled as she faced front and started the car. _You are so dead, Peter! Of all of the role models my son picks, he chooses the one the same age he is_! 

  


Unsurprisingly, Idina did not have to fulfill her threat to appear at May Parker’s door in Forest Hills. Based upon a picture in Peter's apartment months ago, and that dating back to when he was a boy, Idina imagined May would be a small, hunched, frail old woman wearing dowdy clothing. However, that was not the person ushered into the dressing room with her nephew after the Sunday matinee. May's height was comparable to Idina's, and her handshake, although compromised by arthritis, still felt strong and confident. The sparkle in her eyes was comparable to that of many a teenage girl who visited Idina at the stage door nightly. 

“Idina Menzel! I've been a fan of yours since _Rent_!” May exclaimed. “And _who_ is this charming and handsome young man?” she asked, bending over and extending her hand to Walker, who was a last minute addition to the party. 

"That would be me, Aunt May, don’t you remember?” Peter interjected, prompting a dismissive wave from the older woman. 

“Ignore him!” May told mother and son. 

“And I am pleased to meet _you_ , Mrs. Parker,” Idina responded. "I'm sorry Walker's sitter cancelled at the last minute, but I think I can get Joby to take him if you - " 

“Absolutely not! That delightful boy is more than welcome to join us! And call me May, young lady. I didn’t realize you and Peter had met.” 

“Oh, I’m a veritable potpourri of surprises, Aunt May. And _you_ never told me you saw _Rent_. I thought _Annie_ was the raciest thing you saw back in the day." 

"It was Anna Watson's idea. And your Uncle Ben could be such an old prude, so I never told him." 

"I think my childhood has just been torn asunder." 

"Oh, _Rent_ was tame. You should have seen _Hair_. They took all their clothes off in that one you know." 

"Oh my god! There are now images in my head I never wanted!" 

Idina intervened before Peter's aunt embarrassed him too much before the evening started. She wanted to spread it out and ensure his agony endured all night. 

“Peter came recommended when we needed a photographer in a hurry. He suggested an evening out for you rather than payment,” Idina offered in the way of a palatable explanation for the day’s events. Secret identity thing and all. 

"Oh, pictures for your show?" May asked. 

"Uh, no." Idina looked around, drew closer to May, then whispered, “Private ones,” smirking and looking at Peter as he reacted with an exasperated facepalm. 

"Oh really?” May asked. “Peter, I didn't know you did those for anyone except Mary Jane!" 

"What the - ? I don't! She's, she's...lying," the last word was uttered at a much lower decibal than its predecessors as Peter realized he sounded like a boy feuding with his sister in front of a parent. 

"I'm just teasing, Mrs. Parker. Of course they were for the show. I noticed when I first met your nephew that he could stand a little loosening up, so I like to kid around with him." 

"He's always been a little too serious for his own good. He's a lot like his father that way." 

“Rather than go out the stage door, my car and driver are waiting at one of the other exits,” Idina said, leading Walker and the Parkers out of her dressing room. “James runs interference for me with the girls outside when I need to sneak out another way.” 

“Oh, that James Snyder is such a nice young man! He let me get a selfie with him. And he’s so handsome! I was disappointed to learn he was married.” 

“ _Aunt May!_ ” 

They slipped out the exit and met Idina’s driver, who ushered May and Walker into the back seat. During that moment, Idina turned to Peter and gave him a wink he interpreted as the equivalent of sticking out her tongue and going “nyaah, nyaah.” 

"There's a storm coming, Elphie," he muttered. 

"Bring it on, Mama's Boy." 

Like many older relatives with whom Idina was familiar, May was an uninhibited conversationalist, almost immediately asking why Idina and Kristin Chenoweth didn’t do more together. Idina was, of course, used to that inquiry and delivered her standard answer about their mutually busy schedules and her desire to spend what free time she had with Walker. May also questioned the “foul language” in _If/Then_ , and why “such a pretty girl with such a beautiful voice had to say all of those nasty words.” When she and Anna Watson saw Idina and Kristin in _Wicked_ , that “wonderful show" didn’t have any foul language. 

After May excused herself momentarily, Peter asked “You’re enjoying this, aren’t you?” to which Idina smiled and replied “Every (fucking) minute,” with the middle world only mouthed since Walker was present. She took great delight in seeing the quip-happy superhero repeatedly speechless over his Aunt’s behavior. By now, though, she knew a lot of the “Spider-Man” personality was as much a costume as the red and blue pajamas. 

“I like your Aunt May. She says I’m a pretty girl.” 

“She’s in her late seventies. Her eyes are so bad the DMV won't let her drive anymore.” 

“I can still kick you in the balls under this table, Mama’s Boy.” 

“I am _not_ a Mama’s Boy.” 

“Oh please. I could see you clutching your Aunt's apron strings when you walked into my dressing room.” 

After a moment’s pause, Peter’s tone turned serious. “So, you, uh, haven’t seen or heard from Norman since - ?” 

Idina was visibly irritated Peter would mention Osborn in casual conversation considering its sensitivity to her, Walker's presence, and the uncertainty of when May would return. “Of course not. Why would you ask me that - _now_ of all times?” Upon realizing he _wouldn't_ without reason, she became immediately concerned. “Why? What’s wrong?” 

Peter’s eyes quickly darted back and forth to ensure their privacy would be absolute for the next several minutes. He noted Walker was distracted coloring, and knew from talking with Idina that without references to Spider-Man or the Green Goblin, the boy would not pay attention. Walker knew his mother dated a man called Osborn, among others, and would just assume upon hearing the name it was more boring “old boyfriend” talk. “Phil Coulson told me Osborn’s daughter, Sarah, is AWOL. The last time I saw her was when I introduced her to SHIELD. She needed a place to go, to find a role for herself while also having access to facilities that could help with her accelerated aging.” Osborn’s twin children, Gabriel and Sarah, born from a one-night dalliance with Gwen Stacy nearly a decade ago, were subject to accelerated aging resulting from the genetic abnormalities in Osborn’s blood. Chronologically, the children were in their early teens. Biologically, however, they were in their mid-20’s. 

“What about Gabriel?” Idina asked. An unfortunate by-product of her involvement with Norman Osborn was induction as a supporting cast member into the Spider-Man/Green Goblin rivalry, and knowledge of all sorts of Osborn intrigue, a necessary survival technique rather than morbid curiosity. 

“Still institutionalized with a scrambled brain. He and Sarah know all about me as Osborn told them an early age _I_ was their biological father, and responsible for their mother’s death. Needless to say, that led to a rather awkward first meeting.” He noticed Idina’s left palm pressing against her temple, and her other hand rummaging through her purse. ”Are you alright?” 

“I’ve been having tension headaches. Prepping for my tour is nerve-wracking, and _If/Then_ 's closing is depressing me. It’s an occupational hazard in the theater community. I'm ready to move on, but still, when you spend a year and a half with a company of people you genuinely like, through readings, rehearsals, previews, and eight shows a week, particularly after what I’ve been through…" Although referencing the headaches was unavoidable, she opted not to tell Peter the nightmares had returned. 

“I understand. Mary Jane was never in a show with the duration of any of yours, but I remember how melancholy she’d be when one ended, beyond the economic ramifications.” 

“This news doesn’t help. Should I be worried?” 

Peter shook his head. “No, _I_ am, but it's _my_ problem. I feel you should be kept apprised of Osborn Asylum matters since you've been tangentially pulled into that world and I don't want you caught by surprise. Sarah’s troubled, but a good kid, with a lot of her mother in her. In fact, she's the spitting image of Gwen, which is unnerving. She’s not a sociopath like Norman, has more sense than Harry ever had, and isn’t nuts like Gabriel. She's the spitting image of her mother, which is unnerving. But, she's her father's daughter in many ways. Beyond her blood chemistry, she has the Osborn temper and is prone to addictive behavior like all Osborns. And her emotional maturity isn’t on par with her physical maturity. I don’t feel comfortable unless I know where every Osborn is at all times. I don’t expect her to show up on your doorstep, but seriously, if you see anyone who looks like Gwen Stacy, call me. The last thing we need is another Osborn going into the family business.” 

May soon returned to the table, requiring a change in topic. Not long after, Idina noticed Walker fidgeting, and ever the alert mother, knew what that signaled. 

“Walker, do you need to go to the bathroom?” 

“Yeah.” 

Idina began to rise when May spoke up “You sit down, young lady! Why don’t you let Peter take him? You’ve been on your feet for the last several hours! You should be able to sit and enjoy a meal once in a while. Peter!” 

Peter's face dropped. “You’re joking.” 

“No, I'm not. It’ll be good for you since you might have to do the same for your own someday. That is, if it’s all right with the boy’s mother.” 

"That’s a _great_ idea!” Idina said with a large smile in exaggerated agreement, reveling in Peter's discomfort. “Walker, is it O.K. if Mr. Parker takes you?” 

The boy nodded, and Peter, knowing he had less chance of escape from this situation than a scheme hatched by Doctor Octopus, murmured something and gave Idina a look before taking the boy by the hand and leading him to the restroom. 

“They never grow up, you know.” May said. 

“Children?” 

“BOYS! I hope you’re prepared!” 

Idina smiled watching Peter and Walker disappear around a corner. _He really would make a good father...although you'd have watch him as closely as the kid._

“Miss Menzel, may I ask you a question?”

_Uh oh. I wondered why she suggested Peter take Walker. The old gal had a motive._ Idina knew enough elderly people to know how eccentric they could be, and May obviously had her moments. But, it was also obvious she could play it up as if she were fulfilling people's preconceived expectations, thus subtly picking up cues and information those who underestimated her would accidentally drop. Idina became very curious about this “question.” 

"Please Mrs. Parker, I don't know who "Miss Menzel" is. Call me Idina, or even Dee if you like. I'm just a trashy Syosset girl at the core.” 

“I may be a susceptible old woman, but I'll never buy that. And you _must_ stop calling me Mrs. Parker.

_Susceptible old woman, my ass._ Truthfully, Idina felt disrespectful addressing her as anything but “Mrs. Parker.” Not only was a good (maybe semi-good) Jewish girl taught to respect her elders, but considering what this woman had endured in her life - not to mention raising Spider-Man. While not diminishing her late husband’s impact on the man Peter Parker was, May's example and guidance enabled a 15-year-old boy to maintain his moral compass after not only losing his father-figure in a violent home invasion (while dealing with her own grief after seeing her life partner die so horribly), but also acquiring indescribable powers. Peter could have unleashed those powers on the world in grief and rage, but chose a different path. What factors distinguished Peter Parker from Norman Osborn? One of them was the woman next to her. “What would you like to know, May?” 

“At my age, I never get a chance to talk mother-to-mother. My best friend, Anna Watson, never had any children of her own. Something has been troubling me, and I would really like a mother's opinion. If one day you realized your son was keeping a powerful secret from you, would you confront him, or would you let him tell you in his own time?” 

_**Oh shit!**_ If the jig wasn't up before, Idina's stunned expression to May's inquiry ripped the cover off the ruse. The older woman hadn't bought the dinner and show in lieu of payment for pictures scam for a second. _Fuck! And Peter doesn’t know?! But **now** she knows I know! Some actress I am!_

_Well, it was a lame story, but that stuff always seems to work in comic books._

“I, uh,“ she fumbled, not looking at May, who was clearly expecting an answer. “I suppose,” she carefully responded, “that if I could live with...what I knew...I would try to let him tell me in his own time. I have...experience...with men who keep secrets. Only when _they_ choose to discuss them will you get anything close to the complete truth.” 

May sighed heavily and nodded. “I'm afraid I agree with you. But I'm also afraid I won't live long enough for the little twit to man up and do it."

"So you're saying this _never_ ends? The worry? The frustration?" 

May sadly shook her head. "No, it doesn't." After a moment's pause, she continued. "I can tell you’re a good mother to that boy,” which served as both a compliment and a cue to change the topic of conversation. 

“Thank you Mrs. – _May_. I hope Walker will someday be the man Peter is, and that I can do even a fraction of the job you obviously did with him.” After a pause, she concluded “but _please_ don't tell him I said that." 

"Never heard it," May responded, smiling. 

"But I’m not good enough to give Walker what he needs. I’ve made _so_ many mistakes. And I swore I'd _never_ get divorced, not after what our parents' divorce did to me and my sister. And then there's the fact my career is so important to me, but I feel I'm a horrible mother because of the time it takes me away from him.” 

“Young lady,“ May reached over and grasped Idina’s hand, “I don't want to hear any more silly talk. You **are** good enough. And as bland and old fashioned as it sounds – it takes two. You weren’t the only one responsible for trying to keep that promise. Lord in heaven knows Ben and I didn’t stay married for nearly 40 years because it was easy. But we _both_ wanted to tough it out, to finish the journey we started - together. Other than Peter's well-being, I don't think we wanted anything else more. I miss him so much - but we'll have to wait to be together again until I find someone to take care of Peter when I'm gone. I so thought Mary Jane...I may have to live to 120 considering what a little pain in the you-know-what he can be. As far as your career...I've seen you enough times to know it's what you were meant to do. He'll understand that, and respect it when he gets older, and he'll have more respect for women in general due to your example. And the fact it bothers you as much as it does proves you're anything but a horrible mother.” 

Before a tearing up Idina could speak again, Peter returned with Walker, and as if on cue, May launched into her act. 

“Peter! Did you have that young man wash his hands before you left?” 

“Of course I did!” 

"And did you wash _your_ hands?" 

"What? I didn't even - " 

“Still, you need to set an example. Honestly, Peter…” 

  
Idina smiled at that last memory, and as it drifted away, returned to the task at hand. _Well, I guess that’s it. I've put this off long enough. No point in prolonging the pity party._ She stuffed what was left into the two boxes, closed and taped them shut, looked around the empty room, and sighed. _It was fun, it was hard work, and I have a lot of good memories. I’m going to miss everyone, but it’s time to move on and I can’t wait to – “_

Her phone buzzed. 

_Shit! Just as I was about out of here! Eh, no need to get my panties in a wad. That's probably -_

Then she saw the name with the text. 

_Oh... **fuuuuuuuuuck**. Well, well, well, isn’t **that** interesting? Why now? After all these months?_

The message was one word: _Dinner?_

_Like I really need this shit,_ she grumbled as she sat back down and tried to think of the perfect rejoinder. Failing that, her next thoughts were of how she could artfully avoid responding. 

_No reason I have to answer this right now. I can always say I was in a meeting. Or taking a nap. Or driving. Or running from zombies._

A deep sigh, and after a minute, her phone lit up again. _Monday evening’s best for me – you?_

_Goddamn, she’s persistent!_ Monday was the other woman's day off, the day she usually took a vow of silence to rest her voice. Curiously, she didn't suggest lunch on Tuesday or Thursday. If things were crashing and burning there was always the "I have a show later," excuse for a graceful exit on those days. _She must want to get deep about something. What, I wonder?_

_Monday works,_ Idina replied. _I'll order in. Best to do this at my place than out in public. What sounds good to you?_ After more back and forth, the date, time, and menu was confirmed and they texted their good-byes. 

_I suppose we could actually have **talked** to each other, but I guess we should save that for the face-to-face._

She grabbed her boxes and bolted out the door before anything else distracted her. 

_The past is in the past. My ass_. 

  


**To be continued in Chapter 3 - "Two Different Hearts,"** \- Idina and guest talk and another player enters the stage.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The liberties I took with May knowing Peter's secret is based somewhat on the director's commentary from the _Amazing Spider-Man 2_ DVD. From the perspective of the creative team, May KNOWS, but will not tell Peter. He is going to have to tell her first. That also seemed to be the perspective of Sam Raimi's team, as May's pep talk to Peter in the second of those three films suggests. 
> 
> And really, _really_ , how can she NOT know? I prefer to think of her as smarter than the senile old dingbat most of the Spider-Man writers seem to prefer to write her as.


	3. Two Different Hearts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The past is _never_ in the past when it comes to Idina’s old relationships. One renews at her doorstep, while another, more sinister one, is setting ominous events into motion that will, of course, only serve to complicate life further for our already beleaguered heroine, who is clearly starting to fray…

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is an example of the challenge of mixing two distinct fandoms, one based in reality and one 100% fictional, and hoping the story appeals to _both_ , but risking not appealing to _either_. Oh well. 
> 
> For comic book fans not familiar with Idina Menzel, a _Wicked_ primer seems in order, although it is _soooo_ ancient history to Menzel fans, and may not even remotely interest the comic book fan. But, it's my opinion the story needs this background. I tend to think of my tales as “comic book” in their sensibilities, and _this_ Marvel Comics fan loves continuity and people deep in the back issue bin suddenly returning. 
> 
> I’ve done my research, but I have no clue as to the true relationship between these women and won’t pretend I do. It is easy to see why it's a fanfic writer’s dream as they are very attractive women with distinct personalities, and are careful and vague when discussing their relationship. I suspect their caution is simply because the reality is complicated, difficult to sound bite, and probably quite mundane. Since they are the only ones who, you know, actually lived it, they are the only ones who really understand it.

  
_**“You are going to get yourself fucking killed!”**_

Fists clenched at his sides, Norman Osborn berated the costumed figure face-down on the floor, struggling to rise. Standing nearby, a man dressed in a black combat suit offered his hand to the fallen fighter, but Osborn pushed it away. 

“You and your team are done for the night,” he casually stated, remaining focused on the fallen combatant. “I’ll contact you if anything on the schedule changes.” 

After Osborn’s dismissal, the man walked over to a group of five additional fighters, each in various stages of recouping from the evening’s workout, rubbing and flexing limbs, removing mouth and face guards and collecting scattered hand to hand combat weapons. He raised a finger, moving it in a circular motion to signal it was time to leave. 

As the team filed out of Oscorp Tower's basement level gymnasium, the building’s owner circled the now standing, but still wobbly, costumed figure. Wearing a mask featuring white opaque eyes, the combatant was adorned in a black costume with green gloves. The hood was down, revealing a green, hairless head. The nose and ears weren’t as exaggerated as the "classic" Osborn and son Goblin costume and there was no long purple cap. Yet, there was no doubt as to the inherited legacy. 

_I have to change that mask, add a covering such as hair or a cap, and get rid of the damn hood,_ Osborn thought. _I wanted a different look, but it's still too close to that bastard Kingsley’s version. And there's no longer any point to a neutral look, is there?_ “Kingsley” was Roderick Kingsley, the original Hobgoblin, who initiated his own costumed crime career by looting Osborn’s hideouts, stockpiled with Goblin costumes and weaponry for Harry’s use while Norman was underground in Europe and presumed dead.

“When you put someone down,” Osborn said, resuming his lecture, “You put them down hard enough so they don’t get back up!” 

“I didn’t want to seriously hurt anyone! This isn’t real!” the Goblin responded, matching Osborn's level of anger. 

“I’m paying them pretty goddamn well to make this “real,” and _that_ includes the possibility of injury – to them _and_ to you! The only one who apparently doesn’t get that - is YOU! 

“These aren’t the same slack-jawed, knuckle-dragging hoodlums you’ve teed off on the last few weeks. These are trained fighters. Fortunately for you they aren’t hardened killers – or even super-powered! You’re obviously not ready for either. You let them overwhelm and beat you, despite the Goblin formula in your bloodstream and the modest fighting skills you’ve acquired. You'll feel this thrashing for the next couple of days, and you're damn lucky I ordered them not to strike your face!" 

Although Osborn towered over the Goblin, the costumed figure walked up to him, looked him in the eye and asked with pique and defiance “Is there anything else, _sir_?” 

Osborn suppressed a smile seeing that his "influence" had not extinguished the core personality. Still, such sloppiness could not be tolerated as it could prove fatal. “Yes there is. I am _not_ happy about this publicity,” he said, holding up the cover page of a recent _Post_ in front of the Goblin before casting it to the floor. “You should have been more aware of your surroundings, noticed that photographer, and confiscated his camera. I don’t care what spin the media is putting on this, I don’t care how popular you’re becoming with the hormonal, metal-mouthed, pimply-faced squealing prepubescent set – you weren’t ready for this kind of exposure, and you’re bound to attract the attention of Spider-Man.” 

“I can handle Spider-Man." 

“No you can’t! I do _not_ want you getting anywhere near Spider-Man! He is foolish and naïve, but he is an experienced warrior, and you are not! He takes the appearance of any Goblin personally, and _you_ of all people should know that by now!” 

Although still angry and wanting to harangue his pupil further, Osborn was perceptive enough to realize that approach, regardless how warranted, had diminishing returns. When the Goblin removed its mask, revealing a pained expression and watering eyes, he knew his instincts were correct. Further pursuit of his objectives would have to wait. He normally despised such a display of weakness, especially out of Harry, but with this one...He sighed deeply, rubbed his forehead, and spoke again, firmly, but softer in tone, betraying a compassion he seldom showed to others. 

“If anything happened to _you_ , I'd have to go into permanent exile this time. We’re done for the night. We _are_ going to go through this again, but first I want you to become more familiar with the glider, this time with additional armaments, which will increase its weight, and impact maneuverability and fuel consumption. Now, it’s time for sleep.” He put his right arm around the Goblin’s shoulder and they walked out of the gymnasium. 

  
  
Come Monday night, Idina, as usual, was a nervous wreck. 

It wasn’t the food. _That_ was coming from professionals because she knew better than cooking anything more complicated than pancakes. And not because her apartment wasn’t immaculate, because if it was, well, _that_ would have blown her visitor's mind. Besides, a five year old boy also lived there. 

She imagined their initial greeting would be wordless. The doorbell would ring, she would open the door, her guest would smile. A solitary tear would gently flow down each of their cheeks, and they would share a soft embrace in the hallway outside Idina’s door. 

She should have known better. 

  
Idina Menzel and Kristin Chenoweth had already notched places in Broadway history years before _Wicked_ debuted on the Great White Way on October 30, 2003. Idina was a 1996 Tony nominee for _Rent_ and Kristin was a 1999 Tony winner for _You’re a Good Man Charlie Brown_ (which also starred Idina's old friend Anthony Rapp as the title character). However, their legacies were solidified, and the two permanently yoked together in many minds, by their lead roles among the original Broadway cast of _Wicked._

Except Idina _wasn’t_ the _original_ Elphaba. 

She is credited with “originating” the role, but that was an “on Broadway” distinction, although earned because once a role is officially cast, readings and rewrites are tailored to the actor. Kristin had been in readings a year before Idina joined, and Galinda/Glinda _was_ Kristin. The role, as it evolved from the source material, was written with her in mind, with no others considered for or offered the part. She spent most of that year working with Stephanie J. Block, a Los Angeles based actress and singer, and Elphaba back to the first table reading. The two became fast friends. 

More than a decade later, some among the Broadway faithful suggest Stephanie would have been the superior choice, that she should have been allowed to take the role to Broadway, but Idina swept in and stole it out from under her. That perspective could have been the foundation for a delicious catfight and lifelong, bitter rivalry between the two women, but nothing of the sort occurred because the reality was far more mundane. Stephanie was simply a victim of _Wicked_ ’s economics. One of the most expensive Broadway musicals in history at its time, _Wicked_ ’s initial $14 million capitalization was a huge gamble. Stephanie had no Broadway credits, no Broadway “cache,” to sell to investors, no standout performances in a Broadway production or Tony nominations/awards that could be slapped on a poster and peddled to the public. Along with her Tony nomination, Idina had originated the role of a stand out, flamboyant character in a radical new musical that defined an era (and was still running on Broadway in 2003), securing a loyal following in the process. 

However, Idina's “cache,” from _Rent_ had not translated into “cash.” Her music career was stillborn, with her label dropping her due to her first album's anemic sales. Her movie career was limited to two cameos and a role in a little seen film, and she returned to the theater. It was good work and paid the bills. _Wicked_ auditions came to New York, and upon reading the original novel, she felt connected to Elphaba, the angry, tormented outsider, and knew this could be an incredible experience. She more than simply wanted, she _needed_ this role. To stand out among the other hopefuls, she arrived at her first audition dressed in black, wearing green lipstick, eye shadow and blush. 

On her callback, however, her voice cracked badly during the finale of “Defying Gravity” and she screamed “Fuck!” at the top of her lungs, later running home in tears convinced she had blown it. What she didn't know then was that her temperament sealed it, demonstrating to the producers and director that in addition to the raw talent, she possessed the passion and emotional turbulence they were looking for in Elphaba. 

Of course, just because Idina won the role didn’t mean she would keep it. During the long and torturous road from readings to opening night, actors are often replaced. In _Wicked_ itself the Wizard in the San Francisco tryouts, Robert Morse, didn’t transfer to Broadway as he was supplanted by the legendary Joel Grey. 

She struggled mightily at first. Her voice cracked and wore out, and the numerous script changes and cold readings flummoxed her, while Kristin always delivered. The story was Elphaba’s, but “Glinda” kept stealing the show during early tryouts, frustrating Idina further and forcing even more changes to strengthen Elphaba’s role. Kristin could dance. Kristin could fucking sing _everything_. She had impeccable comic timing. She was a _pro_. Idina was described, although not without respect and affection, as a "hot mess." 

During all of the readings, rehearsals and tryouts, Kristin was nothing but supportive of Idina in the presence of others, although there were many acrimonious private moments. Still, they both knew the show's success relied upon them developing a symbiotic relationship on stage, regardless of its fractious underpinnings. But sometimes Idina felt she could see in Kristin's face _Stephanie was better_. Kristin never said it, but Idina always _believed_ that was her opinion. Idina's work ethic was unimpeachable, and no one doubted she was busting her ass. Still, she felt _they_ worried they chose the wrong Elphaba, and were keeping Julia Murney's number handy. 

She likely would not have successfully endured the experience if not for Taye. A performer himself, he understood the insecurities and fears that gripped those in the craft. And he truly was her biggest fan, never losing faith in her, "even when I feel like the biggest loser" as she stated in her Tony acceptance speech. He may not have achieved “supernova” status, but playing Angela Bassett's romantic interest in _How Stella Got Her Groove Back_ made him a star and he worked steadily. All the times she alternatively screamed at him and cried in his arms, fearing she would be fired, he continued supporting and loving her and talking sense into her when others couldn't. Whenever she fell back to earth, when her early successes failed to pay off in bigger and better opportunities, particularly the crossover success she hungered for, when the phone didn’t ring and she didn’t work, he was there to catch her. 

Now, ironically, after she finally broke through, after her greatest success…he wasn’t there at all. Not at the Oscars, not at Radio City, not at the receipt of her Breakthrough Artist Award. The lyric from _If/Then_ , _"You sit a spell, a queen upon her throne – you go to bed alone,"_ was true, and not just for her character, Elizabeth. 

It wasn’t fucking fair. 

The doorbell's melody jolted Idina from her brooding. Of course, _she_ couldn’t just simply press the damn thing once - _she_ had to be a smart-ass and ring it in a very familiar sequence. 

“Really – you did “Let it Go” with my doorbell?” Idina yelled after flinging open the door. 

And there she was, a megawatt of energy compacted in a fragile four foot eleven inch human shell – "Kristi" Dawn Chenoweth, her legal name upon adoption as an infant by the Chenoweth family. Her voice teacher at Oklahoma City University, the renowned Florence Birdwell, suggested adding the "n" so she would be taken more seriously as an opera singer, her original career plan. 

“IS THIS THE HOME OF BROADWAY’S BIGGEST STAR!?” Kristin asked in full throat as if she were on stage playing to the cheap seats. 

_Oy._

Idina grimaced, frantically searching her brain for a great rejoinder, a crushing retort. But what came out was: 

“Oh, fuck off.” _FAIL!_

“Wait, let me try again.” Kristin stepped back into the hallway, shut the door and rang the doorbell again, now to “Defying Gravity.” Idina rolled her eyes, sighed loudly, gritted her teeth, and re-opened the door, fearful of what the hell would greet her this time. 

“IS THIS THE HOME OF THE WICKEDLY TALENTED - ONE AND ONLY - ADELE DAZEEM?!” 

“Goddammit I knew _that_ was coming! Get in here! Unless you want to be murdered right on my doorstep!” 

“Nice to see you too, darlin’! And you dressed for the occasion as usual,” commented Kristin as she walked in, noting her host's current fashion choice of jeans, T-shirt, and bare feet. Idina closed the door behind her, taking a moment to scan Kristin's wardrobe, a simple yellow top, a printed skirt and large platform sandals that gave her three additional inches. 

“It’s dinner at home, not a date.” 

“No? I’m heartbroken. I was so hoping to renew our passionate lesbian love affair.” 

“In your dreams. Like I want a lover who sleeps with her head on a wedge, and wears a mouthpiece and a neck brace to bed. I’m not waking up to _that_ every morning.” 

“Your loss. You were only attractive when you were green, anyway.” 

After a moment of silence and stares, Idina burst out laughing in her usual cackle and snort combination. She wrapped her arms around Kristin and squeezed, a gesture immediately and firmly returned. 

“It is so good to see you again,” Idina said, and some of the tears she imagined would come finally did. 

“You too, Honey. You too.” 

“How long has it been? The photo-shoot?” Idina asked, referencing _Entertainment Weekly’s_ 10th Anniversary Reunions Issue from October 2013, which reunited principals of various entertainment endeavors, and featured her and Kristin in observance of the 10th anniversary of _Wicked’s_ Broadway opening. 

“Yeah. Lot's happened since then, hasn’t it?” Kristin replied with deliberate understatement. 

“A _fucking_ lot has happened since then. Pour you a drink while we’re waiting on dinner to be delivered?” 

“Delivery? You didn’t cook for me?” 

“I was visited by both the Health Department and Fire Department last time I tried cooking.” 

“Coca-Cola products only, right?” 

“Of course! I'm not much of a cook, but I'm a good host!” 

“So, where’s your little man?” Kristin asked, following Idina into her kitchen. 

“He’s with his father in California. How’s your mom? And how’s the world famous Madeline Kahn Chenoweth?” Idina asked as she pulled a liter of Diet Coke from the refrigerator and a glass from one of the cabinets. 

“Mom continues to be one of the most amazing women I know. I think she's going to outlive me,” sighed Kristin, reflecting on her mother’s bouts with breast cancer. “Maddie doesn't have a lot of time left. She’s on three different heart meds, and she can’t really travel anymore. She’s the closest thing I’ve had, and probably will ever have, to a child. I just don’t know how I'm going to cope when that day comes. I know it’s not the same, but…” “Maddie” was Kristin’s pet Maltese dog, the singer's near constant companion for many years. 

“You don’t need to apologize, Kris. You've had her since _Wicked_ haven't you? More than twice as long as I’ve had Walker. Longer than my fucking marriage lasted. You’ve every right to consider her your child.” 

"Gimme that,” Kristin snapped, grabbing the bottle and glass from her host, an action which also served to change the subject. “I can pour my own drink.” 

“Not if you can't see over the counter.” 

“Ha. Took you longer than usual to hit me with a “short” joke. Probably ‘cause you’re so tired from being the hottest thing on earth these days, not to mention _Broadway’s Biggest Star_. I was afraid to walk near that damn thing because I felt your eyes following me.” 

“Please, they took that down. And it's not like your mug isn’t up there for all to see. Shit, this has been my biggest year and I still think you've been on twice as many talk shows.” 

“Yeah, but I’m just a star,” Kristin said with feigned modesty, placing her hand on her chest, "and you’re a _su-per-no-va_ ,” stretching “supernova” over four syllables and upping the emphasis for maximum effect. 

“OK - are you done? Are you fucking done? Come back when there’s an _Idina Menzel Theater_ in Long Island before we talk about one’s name being in lights. I’ll bet you’ve got a statue in there people have to bow to before they can enter the auditorium.” 

“That’s a _great_ idea! I’m calling the manager right now! It’ll have to be me as Glinda, don’t you think? Oooooh, but there’s that whole Ten Commandments thing about graven images. Oh well, I’m sure God didn't mean cute, perky ones!” Kristen then noticed Idina's growing irritation and decided to close this particular comedic stretch. 

“Dee - I’m just teasin' you. Of course you should enjoy it without being embarrassed! You know I sure as hell would! You deserve all of the success you’ve had and you’ve worked your ass off – although it comes back a little bigger each time I see you. You don’t owe anyone any explanations or apologies. And as far as New Year’s Eve – fuck 'em. Most of 'em wouldn't have the guts to sing live in freezing weather and they'd just lip sync. Besides, the Super Bowl went fine, didn't it?” 

"Sure, like the title of that _Daily Beast_ article said - _"Idina Menzel Doesn't Screw up. Finally.""_

" _One_ asshole. I knew from our first _Wicked_ rehearsals together you were gonna be something special. I watched you grow from an insecure, neurotic singer and actress to an insecure, neurotic Tony Award winner. The only thing I saw stopping you was up here.” Kristin tapped her forehead. 

“Is that your way of saying I’ve got a million dollar voice and a ten cent brain?” 

“No, Sweetie. You were _always_ smart. I knew that when you showed up in green eye shadow for your audition. I just wasn’t sure at first you had the toughness and self-confidence to barrel through. There was a hell of a lot more pressure and attention focused on getting _Wicked_ off the ground than anything either one of us had been involved with before. Tell me, though, if you had achieved this level of success right after you left _Rent_ , or even _Wicked_ \- would you have the same appreciation of it and humility you do now?” 

Idina grimaced, remembering the mind-set of the 20-something girl who left _Rent_ to focus on her music career, passing up potentially good acting gigs for said career, then watching everything implode when her album tanked and the label dropped her. _If only I'd known. But if I'd known - where would I be now? And who's to say that would be better than what I currently have?_

“I’d like to think I would have. I don’t know. Maybe I would have taken it for granted and become insufferable. I just worked so long for crossover success, and it finally comes in a movie cartoon song with the words “frozen fractals” in it. I mean really - I had to Google the fucking term.” 

“I've always believed God has a plan for each of us, that things come when He thinks we’re ready. Maybe it happened at the best possible time.” 

“You know, Kris, the next time you talk to God, I’ve got some questions. Do you mind taking them down for me and running them by Him?” 

“Such skepticism. I thought you were a nice Jewish girl who was taught better in synagogue.” 

“Still Jewish. Not so nice at times. Lot’s happened since then.” 

Returning to the living room, Kristin’s gaze wandered to a small bookshelf. After spying the topics of several of the books, she quickly moved to the shelf and began browsing. 

“I didn’t realize you were into this stuff, Dee. Holy crap! Criminal psychology, forensic psychology, _serial killers_ , martial arts? If I didn’t know you better, I’d worry you were sharpening knives or stashing firearms in your bedroom. I _love_ all that forensic science stuff and the TV shows! Hey, is one of them on tonight? Whoa, some of these are college textbooks. You’re not taking classes are you?” 

“Fuck no. I don’t have the time. It’s just reading material. Except I _am_ taking martial arts classes and so is Walker. And I’m not _into_ it, not like you are. I’m just trying to understand – how those people think.” 

“ _Those_ people?” 

“Psychopaths. Killers.” 

“Oh. I see,” Kristin said quietly, knowing the events prompting Idina’s interest in the subject matter. Normally she’d have initiated a vigorous discussion considering her own fascination with serial killers and the criminal mind, but it didn't seem appropriate now. 

  
Dinner was reserved for polite talk about careers, showtime war stories, friends and family, encounters with mutual acquaintances, physical ailments, and the usual feminine issues associated with the onset of middle age - emotionally untaxing subjects, generating laughs and fond memories. 

In the living room after dinner, Kristin, having long ago kicked off her platforms, tucked her legs and feet under her as she sat on the couch. Idina slouched in an adjacent chair, legs crossed, bare feet propped on the coffee table. She nursed a glass of wine while Kristin stuck with Diet Coke as alcohol exacerbated her inner ear problem. The awkward silence heralded the beginning of the "heavy stuff," but both were reluctant to be the initiator. 

Following a sharp intake of breath and a sigh, Idina took a gulp of wine and began. “So why text me now, Kris? You were in New York long before your show opened. The Harvey Milk concert, the Lenox Hill Benefit, rehearsals and publicity, and photos galore of you making the rounds of all of the other shows in town. Funny thing, though - never saw you at _If/Then_.” 

Kristin frowned, placing her drink on a coaster on the table. “You know damn well why I didn’t go to your show – the same reason you aren't going to mine. The paps, your “Fanzels,” my fans, Perez Hilton and those like him will lose their collective shit, and the "Chenzel feels" will melt down our Twitters. It would have been a circus and you know it. And let's be honest with ourselves here - diva to diva. Neither one of us wanna share the spotlight with the other at _our own damn show_. As far as just getting together,” she tossed up her hands. “I don’t know – after not talking for so long it becomes seeing who blinks first, and I'm as bull-headed as you. So, that all out of the way now?” 

_Ouch_. 

_This_ was the Kristin Chenoweth the public never saw, the tough, ambitious, driven, don’t-fuck-with-me woman masked by the “aw shucks, darlin’” act. Behind the million dollar smile and pint-sized, squeaky-voiced country girl was a person who torched her chances at a personal life in her single-minded pursuit of fame and fortune, almost always eschewing the easy road and rolling the dice for a chance at something greater. This was the woman who declined a $75,000 full ride scholarship to train as an opera singer at Philadelphia's Academy of Vocal Arts to accept a $500/week part in a musical, living on ramen noodles, to get her Equity card, launching her career. Years later, rather than accept a sure-fire prominent role alongside Broadway legend Bernadette Peters in _Annie Get Your Gun_ , she opted for an undefined, previously nonexistent part in _Charlie Brown_ , which she turned into a Tony winning role. She struggled with asthma. As her Meniere’s Disease (an inner ear order causing vertigo) could eventually result in hearing loss as she aged, she began to learn sign language and lip reading. Her skull nearly cracked open when lighting equipment fell on her during filming of a TV show. There were two broken engagements, and a growing pile of relationships discarded once they began to compete with her career. But no matter how often or why she was knocked down, she always pulled herself back up and dusted herself off, likely to continue the cycle until God’s chariot came for her and even then, it was likely she wouldn’t go without a fight. 

Idina continued to stare at her drink, swirling it around, before finally responding. 

“Well, we got a lot of mixed reviews, unlike _your_ show, which had Brantley kissing your ass again." 

"Let's not go there," Kristin suggested. She felt a little smug that _On the Twentieth Century_ opened to largely positive reviews with her own performance garnering glowing praise and a Tony nomination, while _If/Then_ received middling reviews (although Idina's work was typically praised, earning a nomination the prior year). However, Idina was bold enough to hitch her wagon to a new, original musical with adult themes when the world wanted more "Elsa," and Kristin put little stock in the bloviating of the critical press anyway. 

"I would just liked to have known," Idina continued, "what _you_ thought. Because even after all this time, after everything else, _your_ opinion…" She tailed off without finishing the sentence. Kristin grabbed her drink again, took another sip, and leaned back into the couch. After a long pause, she said softly and sincerely, “ _Frozen_ was beautiful.” 

Idina weakly replied “Thank you,” acknowledging the consolation prize. 

When Kristin spoke again, it was in a gentler, more conversational tone, an ease made possible by removal of one of the elephants in the room. Of course, there were more. 

“I suppose finally walking by where the Gershwin used to be…well, I got all sentimental and stuff.” She noticed Idina tensed at mention of the Gershwin. “To be honest, I’ve been worried about you for some time, particularly now with your show closing. I know how much you liked doing it, liked the people you were working with, how it kept you sane with everything else that had happened. I was afraid the post-show depression would compound whatever misery you were already enduring.” 

“You needn’t worry. I was ready to leave. I'd had enough of 8 shows a week of the same material while trying to squeeze in promotional work and other appearances and, oh yeah, be a mother to my son. Besides, I've got a world tour coming up I'm excited about. I’m fine,” Idina replied devoid of enthusiam. 

“ _Bullshit_ you're fine, Idina Menzel! You’re a no better liar than the day I met you. You haven’t been fine since the tabloids finally outed your husband's dalliances with strippers and fashion models, although it's no secret how many years _that_ had been going on. Speaking of whats-his-name, how’s it working out?” 

“We get along better now that we're not married. There weren't a whole lot of problems sorting things out. Things get testy when it comes to Walker, but child custody issues suck for people who _aren’t_ in show business and don't have to keep chasing after gigs. That’s why I'd love it if this TV show deal worked out, since it'd give me the semblance of a normal job and a normal life. He always seems to come up with one. But, he's a good father, and he was always my biggest fan professionally. He was just a shitty husband who couldn't stop partying and keep his dick out of other women. So, what about you? You getting laid much lately?” 

Kristin smiled at the less than subtle retribution for bringing up Idina’s ex. “What can I say? Our work doesn’t leave much time for love. But with Dana, I guess I was just 20 years too old, considering who he’s screwing now. I’m so glad to have this show right now, for some stability and consistency, although it's a grind. Still, at our age, it’s going to be harder to find a man who doesn’t have baggage like crazy ex-wives, bloodsucking kids, or substance abuse issues, not to mention they get bald and flabby, too. That is, unless you want to start dating twenty-something boys, which is fun until they see the toll age takes, or get mad you can’t do it because your pain meds have you listless and drooling out one side of your mouth. The Mrs. Robinson appeal goes right out the window for them after that.” 

“Speaking from personal experience?” 

“Just what I’ve heard.” 

“Uh-huh.” 

“You know, Dee, we’re rich old broads. Nothing says we can't rent a couple of boy toys for a night to remember.” 

“You’re _not_ serious.” 

Kristin wagged her eyebrows. Although she was known for publicly and boldly proclaiming her faith, she still had the dirtiest mind of any "Christian" Idina ever met. 

“I don’t think that's an answer to “What Would Jesus Do?” Besides, the only man I need in my life right now is Walker.” 

“You know, it was painful to see what happened with you and Taye. You were together for so many years, had the whole interracial marriage thing beat, had a child with him and it _still_ fell apart. Maybe I sabotage my relationships because a break-up after that much time, with all that history and all those memories, would _kill_ me. Why are my mom and dad, who've been together for decades, so rare these days?” 

“Someone once told me," Idina began "you _both_ simply have to want it, almost more than anything else. You both have to _want_ to finish the journey you started together. When she first said it, I thought it was corny fortune cookie bullshit - but it’s the goddamn truth. _I_ wanted it, but he only did if he could bring others along for the ride.” 

After a pause and a sigh, Kristin gently inquired “So, is it OK to ask what _really_ happened at the Gershwin last year?” as she shifted nervously on the couch. She had pondered all evening whether to broach the subject. Her curiosity was naturally heightened as Idina refused to discuss it publicly, and she didn't believe for a minute the official drivel from the SHIELD and police press conferences the following day. She hated “spin,” that conglomeration of half-truths, shaded truths, cover-ups, and outright lies those in authority fed the public, seemingly without the slightest bit of self-awareness that no one was buying their bullshit, and the arrogant confidence they couldn’t be called on it. She didn’t want to re-trigger any trauma for Idina, nor overstep their relationship boundaries, with the nature of their friendship being somewhat fluid over the years. However, even though their post- _Wicked_ reunions were few in number, the duration and intensity of their time together on that tour de force made her proficient at reading Idina, and knowing when she was in desperate need of unloading her burdens. The first clue she was right was that Idina hadn’t told her to “fuck off.” 

Yet. 

“I was wondering when you might ask,” the brunnette softly muttered as she looked down at her now empty wine glass, a finger circling the top. “Thanks for the flowers and card when I was in the hospital by the way.” 

Kristin frowned, uncertain about the distribution between heartfelt thanks and sarcasm. Communications between them had been tenuous for years. When Kristin was severely injured on “The Good Wife” set, Idina sent her get-well wishes through a Tweet, rather than initiating actual contact. The harsh words, jealousies, and hurt feelings faded over time, but both seemed fearful renewing contact would unsettle the waters again. And, both could be stubbornly insistent the other should make the first move. Eventually Kristin’s concern for Idina overrode her reluctance – but would tonight still be a mistake? 

Idina placed her empty glass down, sat back, and with her feet still on the coffee table, stared at the polish on her toes as she flexed them back and forth. 

“My pedicure bills are really going to go up once my tour starts.” 

“Wear flats on stage instead of going barefoot. Really, that is just so gross. And don't tangent.” 

“I talked about it with my therapist,” Idina replied with a shrug, unsuccessfully feigning indifference. 

_That wasn't a no,_ Kristin thought. “That’s _not_ what I asked,” she chided as gently as possible. 

“It’s OK. I’m OK.” 

As it was evident Idina was neither going to explicitly grant her permission to proceed, nor flatly refuse her, Kristin decided to delicately forge ahead. 

“I remember waking up that next morning and CNN was reporting the Gershwin had been destroyed, you'd been there when it happened, were seriously injured and in the hospital. That – what’s that weird spy agency called again?” 

“SHIELD.” 

“Yeah, SHIELD. Anyway, SHIELD said you were doing an internet video on re-visiting the Gershwin after the renovations, or something like that, which frankly, sounded like a lot of hooey. And then Spider-Man, the Green Goblin, and some other character whose name I can’t remember – “ 

“The Jackal,” Idina said softly, visibly shivering as she spoke his name. 

“Never heard of him. Now, Spider-Man and the Green Goblin – _those_ two maniacs have been out there fighting each other for _years_. Everyone knows them. Even back home in Broken Arrow, people ask if I’ve ever met Spider-Man.” 

Idina gave Kristin a stare and her tone sharpened. “ _Don’t_ talk about Spider-Man as if he's the same as the Goblin. He really IS a hero, regardless of what that motherfucker Jameson or anyone else says about him. I wouldn’t be talking to you right now if it weren’t for him.” 

“ _Oooooohkkkkkkkkkaaaaaay_. Sorry. But, you know how I’ve always felt about those costumed characters. Whenever I've done a show here, it seems the guys among the cast and crew tend to like Spider-Man, but most of the ladies think he's creepy. I mean, really, a man who climbs walls and sticks to the ceiling? Don't you wonder how he does that? What are his hands and feet like? I can't imagine someone like that touching me - would he leave a mark or tear off skin or something?" 

"No." 

"Still, you'll be minding your own business, doing normal things like shopping or strolling on the sidewalk when all of a sudden a car would literally fly overhead because one of those dumbasses was throwing it at another dumbass. Or traffic would lock up for miles because a couple of them were brawling in the street. Not to mention being in a meeting or having dinner and one flies through the window. I like New York better, but LA, for all of its other problems, doesn’t seem to be such a magnet for those types. As I recall, _you_ used to feel exactly the same way.” 

“I still do about a lot of them. But some are…different.” 

“Hmmph. Well, Spider-Man doesn't sound like much of a hero sometimes. After all, he said _you_ saved _his_ life that night. He's gotta be rich like Batman to spend all that time in a stupid costume swinging around the city and punching people. He can’t have a real job. Probably inherited his money because he comes across as a total goof in the media.” 

“Kris, Spider-Man…you simply cannot take Spider-Man literally most of the time. The only reason he was at the Gershwin that night was to help _me_. He always leaves that out, along with the fact it nearly got _him_ killed. He took one hell of a beating from the Jackal and the Goblin, and the flying monkeys tore him up good, too.” 

“The what? Are you serious?” 

“Just roll with it. " 

“Anyway, the SHIELD people said you were doing a video when those lunatics came crashing through the Gershwin. That – what was his name – oh, Jackal character had lured the Goblin and Spider-Man there and then blew the place up trying to kill them. You got hurt and Spider-Man took you to the hospital. That’s pretty much all I know.” 

“That was the cover story.” 

“That’s not the truth? As if I had to ask?” 

“Not even close.” 

“So what’s the real story?” 

Idina closed her eyes and sighed deeply, knowing once crossing this threshold, there was no going back. She would have to tell Kristin virtually everything, at least from her own perspective. Spider-Man's name, and the depth of his relationship with the Goblin, however, she didn’t need to know. 

“You might have heard I dated Norman Osborn.” 

“Yeah, talk about a surprise. If you don’t mind my saying, that was a real “odd couple” kind of thing to me. I never saw _you_ going for the corporate CEO type. And if so, I thought you’d do younger and better looking – like Tony Stark. As I recall you only went out with him _once_.” 

“Stark was interested in Idina Menzel, the star, not Idina Menzel, the person. And his eyes didn't stay in one place. It was like going out with my ex.” 

“Oh. I get it. OK - Osborn. Not much in the looks department, particularly with that hair - but he’s loaded. How’d ya hook up with him?” 

“He offered to make a large contribution to my A BroaderWay Foundation if I went to dinner with him one night.” 

“How large?” 

“Half a million dollars.” 

Kristin whistled, raising a skeptical eyebrow. “As a date or an escort?” 

“What the fuck do _you_ think?” 

“You really don’t want my imagination running away with me, do you?” 

“A date, smartass.” 

“And that was _all_ he wanted? Really?” 

“What the – do you think I’m a high priced call girl?” 

“Well, of course not. I never thought you were _expensive,_ ” Kristin said with a devilish grin, ducking quickly when Idina hurled a pillow at her while muttering “Bitch.” 

“What did he do to you?” asked Kristin after watching the pillow sail over her head. 

“He didn’t do anything _to_ me. He treated me very well. Put me on a pedestal, even - which was kind of nice, particularly considering what I was going through otherwise. I liked being with him. But…he lied to me about what he really was.” 

“Married?” 

“No.” 

“Other girlfriends?” 

“ _No_.” 

“Gay?” 

_**“NO!”**_

“Well, what then?” 

Idina took a deep breath. This was _not_ a secret she wanted to share liberally. Hell, it was a secret _she_ wasn’t comfortable knowing. She had already unwittingly been dragged into that nightmarish world, and didn’t want to pull anyone she cared about into it with her, as she worried she would indirectly put people’s lives in danger by sharing it. Still, she had never been able to keep secrets from Kristin. 

“Norman Osborn _**IS**_ the Green Goblin.” 

Kristin’s eyes opened wide, looking like they might actually spring out of her skull.

“ _ **Noooooo**_! You’re kidding! The Green… _SONOFABITCH_!” 

“That fits.” 

“ _He’s_ one of those costumed lunatics? The guy wears suits that probably cost more than what I’m getting per week on my show! He’s always profiled in those top business people in New York type stories. And you’re telling me he flies around on – whatever the hell that thing is – wearing a stupid costume and fighting Spider-Man? Holy crap! But, how do you know he’s the real deal? That he wasn’t just wearing the outfit - like some sort of cosplayer?” 

“Because I saw him rip a man’s fucking head off. Among other things.” 

Kristin sagged on the couch, shaking her head in disbelief. She opened her mouth to ask a question, but was pre-empted. 

“And before you ask - no we didn't!” 

“What made you think I was going to ask?” 

“Because I know the dirty mind inside that blonde haired friend of Jesus skull of yours.” 

“That's not where I was going with it! I was worried! I mean - men like that - don't they take what they want?” 

“Maybe, but _he_ didn't. I think because...” Idina's eyes began to pool with water, her voice trembling as she whispered. "The sonofabitch really loved me." Before Kristin could respond, Idina screamed, pressing both of her palms against her temples. 

“ _Dee!_ What’s wrong?” Kristin lept off the couch and rushed to her side.

“Motherfucking headaches!” 

“Do you have any Tylenol or something like that? ” Kristin asked, increasingly panicked. "I could spare a Vicodin if you don't tell the cops or my doctor." 

“Bathroom medicine cabinet,” Idina replied through gritted teeth, her palms still pressed against her head. 

Kristin rushed to the bathroom, returning with a bottle of Tylenol and a glass of water. Idina shook a handful of pills into her palm and gulped them down. 

“Good god, Dee - how many of those did you take?” 

Idina leaned back in the chair, closed her eyes and rubbed her temples as the pain subsided. “What I needed. My doctor says it's fine. He says the headaches are stress related.” 

“I don't doubt it. I used to get migraines about once a week until I started getting Botox across my eyebrows. Don’t recall one doing a number on me like what I just saw with you, though. Do you need a doctor?” 

“No. I’m fine. I just need to chill out for a moment,” she said, eyes still closed. She remained leaning back, now massaging just her left temple. 

“We don’t have to talk about this anymore if you don’t want to.” 

“It’s not the first one I've had. No, we started down this road - I need to finish.” Idina now opened her eyes and sat up. 

“So, if Osborn’s the Green Goblin, do you think he has something to do with the new one out there?” Kristin began tapping her I-phone. 

“New what?” 

“Another costumed maniac – some new Goblin.” Kristin watched the color drain from Idina's face. “Dee? Are you alright? You sure you don’t need a doctor?” 

“Why do they think it’s a new one?" Idina asked, ignoring Kristin's question. "Maybe it’s just Norman again.” 

“Not unless he’s shrunk, lost weight, and sprouted a couple of boobies.” Noticing Idina’s perplexed look, Kristin brought up a news page on her phone and handed it to her. “There was a liquor store robbery, and a photographer just happened to be in the area and got some pretty good pictures.” 

Idina recognized the headline _”It’s a Girl!_ ” as the one that she saw on the _Post_ during her last visit to the Rodgers. At the time, she thought it was announcing a celebrity birth, not the sighting of a new supervillain. As the pictures were in the _Post_ rather than the _Bugle_ , she knew the photographer was not Peter Parker. 

“How do they know it’s female?” she asked. 

Kristin zoomed in on a shot of the Goblin standing amidst three men rendered unconscious. The suit was not overly form fitting, but the angle was just right to show the two things defining the sex of the Goblin. 

“Oh. I see. So what are they calling her?” 

“The Goblin Queen.” 

“ _The Goblin Queen_? _Really_? Is that who she said she was? Because that’s an awful name. Sounds like a fucking comic book character.” 

“No, I think the _Post_ gave her that name. She's never identified herself.” 

“Figures. So, what’s she doing? Is she breaking into places or causing trouble or fighting any superheroes?” 

“No, she’s not. In fact, this one seems to fight crime, not commit them. Nothing major so far, small robberies, attempted assaults, things like that. Now look at this. She has one Facebook and at least two Twitter accounts I know of.” 

“She’s doing social media?” 

“It’s not her, at least I don’t think so. I think it’s the same kind of Twitter girls who set up accounts with variations of our names and track our movements and swipe pictures and videos from all over the ‘Net. They're going nuts over her. They discuss the sightings, and talk about how cool they think she is.” 

“Kris, it’s sad how you know all of that. You _really_ spend too much time on social media.” 

“Yeah – and who’s a lot closer to having a million followers on Twitter?” 

“I didn’t realize it was a competition.” 

“Oh please. With you, everything’s a competition.” 

“It’s the native New Yorker in me. Does she ever answer back?” 

“Not so far. You think this is Osborn’s doing?” 

“It has to be. And I'll bet that bastard is using his own daughter. You know, I didn’t think you liked any of these people. Maniacs and lunatics you keep calling them. So why do you know so much about them?” 

“Well, I don’t _like_ serial killers, either, but they’re fascinating in their own disturbing way. You have to wonder what kind of people are under those masks and why they do it, particularly the ones calling themselves super _heroes_. Are they military, like that guy who went nuts when his family was killed by hoods? Are they cops, or ex-cops frustrated with the system? Bullies who like to beat people up and a costume gives them the freedom to do that? Or just flat-out crazy people?” 

_Or someone determined to punish himself for the rest of his life because of a mistake,_ Idina thought, remembering someone’s particularly painful “origin story.” 

“That stuff's fine in comic books and movies, " Kristin continued. "But it’s nuts to do it for real. You really think Osborn's using his own daughter?” 

“His son Harry was the Green Goblin for several years.” By now Idina had seen enough and leaned back in her chair. 

“What kind of monster is this guy?” 

“You have _no_ idea. What I saw that night at the Gershwin…” 

With that, Idina returned to telling Kristin about that infamous night. She would occasionally break down, needing a moment to compose herself. Although Kristin gave her opportunities to stop, she insisted on continuing. As difficult as it was, it was proving therapeutic. She had kept some of the details from Cara, as not to un-duly upset or worry her, and talking to a doctor was not like talking to a friend, even one with whom the relationship had been turbulent. Kristin lost count of how many times she gasped, or her jaw dropped, or she covered her mouth, or shook her head in disbelief. 

“Only those of us who were there know more than you,” Idina said very quietly at the conclusion. 

“Oh sweetie, I had _no_ idea,” Kristin stood and extended her arms, a gesture Idina gladly reciprocated, culminating in a tight hug, with tears streaming down their cheeks. It had been a very long time since they embraced like this, since one of them sobbed in the arms of the other. They both silently cursed how they let their differences, jealousies and conflicts over the years keep them from such moments. After the two separated, sat down, and decimated a box of Kleenex, Kristin spoke again. 

“How is it that almost none of that made the news? How?” 

“SHIELD cleans messes up well. And the police were more than happy not to publicly address why some of them fired indiscriminately at a man with protective body armor, but hurting only _me_ instead.” 

“Yeah, like they need that sort of publicity right now. I hope you sued their asses off.” 

“At least I didn’t have to go public with the story. Then the next crisis occurred and everyone moved on to something else.” 

“And you had no idea that Osborn was like this? No clue?” 

“You’re a crime fan. You know how charming some psychopaths are. He seemed to have so many qualities I was looking for at the time, although maybe I was just so fucking lonely I missed some things. I knew he was a man with secrets, a man with a dark side, but _this_ …no. No clue.” 

“So why the hell is he not in jail? If you know what he is, why don’t you turn him in?” 

“Because, Kris, SHIELD _knows_ who and what he is. They seem to fucking know everything. And if _they’re_ letting him run around they sure aren't going to let _me_ blow his cover. They showed up at my hospital bed pretty damn quickly to deliver that message. It was delivered very subtly, but it was delivered.” 

“Oh my god,” Kristin said quietly, still absorbing the magnitude of events Idina endured. “Dee, what you’ve described…that’s – that’s totally crazy. Those people – they’re God’s way of telling us we have to stop messing with human biology. They’re monsters, and they’ll destroy the rest of us if we don’t stop.” 

“Oh please, Kris. There’s no “God,” in this. It’s crazy, evil, greedy, stupid men responsible for these things. And what also scares me about a man like Norman Osborn - men like that don’t just let you walk out of their lives. Sometimes, god help me, I think I feel his presence. And he’s in my dreams.” 

“Your dreams? What kind of dreams?” 

“I can’t describe them. They’re like any dreams, or nightmares you have. Vivid and scary when you’re asleep, but once you wake up, they’re just feelings – impressions. I had them right after that night at the Gershwin, and they went away for awhile. But now…now they’ve come back – and they feel stronger.” 

“Do any of your doctors think you might have PTSD? That could explain the severity of the headaches and the dreams.” 

“Yes – but soldiers who go to war get that. I can’t believe these are anything more than just stress headaches.” 

“Dee, you were kidnapped, tied up, beaten up, shot, barely escaped a burning building, flew on that - I still don't know what the hell that thing is - and crashed into a lake in Central Park. That's not being in a war zone? I – I don’t know how you kept your sanity after all that, much less went back to work!” 

“I really would have gone insane if not for going back to work, Kris. That, and Walker. I probably went back to the show earlier than I should have, but by that time my depression was doing more harm than my physical injuries. But do you know what was even worse than the physical trauma? Being completely helpless. I have never, ever, felt so weak, so powerless, in my entire life. The Jackal kept me tied up and gagged for what seemed like hours. I couldn’t move, I couldn’t talk. I couldn’t even beg for my fucking life! I lay there thinking how I would never see my little boy again! Then on the stage he stood there with a finger on a button that would open a trap door and hang me. And when the Gershwin started collapsing I thought Norman had left me to die. When you think you’re going to die, I mean, _really_ think you’re going to die a _horrible_ death and never see anyone you love ever again...And when I was first admitted to the hospital, I couldn’t even walk without assistance. I had to rely on other people to help me get less than six feet to the fucking bathroom! 

“Ever since then, I’ve been working out more intensely. I'm taking martial arts classes, and I've enrolled Walker as well. I am never, _ever_ going to be that helpless again. For all of his madness, Norman Osborn is right about one thing – it’s _not_ a nice world out there. 

“But you know, I have spent _so_ much time asking myself why I didn't turn Norman down when he asked for another date. But now I realize...all of this...Osborn, the Jackal, the Gershwin, and everything else, only happened because the man whose love and attention I really wanted, _the father of my child_ , _**my own goddamn husband**_ , didn’t want me anymore! That’s why all of this happened! _**Because I wasn’t fucking good enough**_!” 

Idina rose up and hurled her glass at the nearest wall, shattering it, then dropped to her knees, sobbing heavily again, hands covering her face. Kristin ran to her side and fell to the floor as well, tightly embracing her traumatized friend. 

“Get it out, honey. Get it out,” Kristin said, crying herself. “How long have you kept this inside you? No wonder you’re having headaches and nightmares. Maybe you should push back your tour and take some more time off. You know - go to Hawaii or some island resort somewhere with Walker and just leave everything behind for awhile.” 

“You know I can’t do that,” Idina said as she began to calm, wiping her eyes as Kristin loosened her grip. “Venues are booked, tickets are sold, people are talking on Twitter and Facebook about the travel arrangements they're making to attend, and I've got a lot of people lined up who would be thrown out of work on short notice. I can’t do that to them. Besides, I _need_ to sing. I _have_ to perform. If I can’t do that...I might as well be dead.” 

Kristin nodded in understanding and held Idina’s face in her hands, tilting her head forward just enough so that their foreheads briefly touched. She then looked back up, continuing to hold onto Idina’s face, and met her gaze. 

“Now you listen to me, little girl. You _**are**_ good enough. I told you that more than 10 years ago and I’m telling you that now. You are NOT responsible for _anything_ these assholes have done. Your husband cheating on you and humiliating you in public is on _him_ , not you. Norman Osborn being an evil, lying sonofabitch is on _him_ , not you. What that Jackal character did to you was his fault and Osborn’s, not yours. Do you understand me?” 

“My therapist tells me these things but I never believe her.” 

“But your therapist can’t give you this.” Kristin put her arms around Idina again and squeezed with as much effort a 4’11 fireball could muster on a woman half a foot taller. 

“I mean, my god, Kris, I just don’t know how – _how_ …when you have thousands of people who are always telling you that they love you...“ 

“How you can still feel so alone?” 

Idina nodded. 

“Do you want me to stay the night?” Kristin asked. 

“Please? It just…would be nice to have an adult to talk to in the morning for once.” 

“Sure. I brought a change of clothes. Don’t want it to look like I’m doing the Walk of Shame in the morning. That _would_ break the internet in half. And I even brought my wedge, my mouthpiece, and my neckbrace!” 

Although still tearing and rubbing her eyes with her palms, Idina laughed as both women stood again. 

“You’re sleeping alone tonight, then. I thought your bag seemed a little oversized just for dinner.” 

“I had a feeling you might need a little overnight company.” 

Idina skyped with Walker before his bedtime, and she and Kristin finished the evening watching trashy TV, eating ice cream, and nothing else, which felt good. 

“Dee?” Kristin asked when the room had grown especially quiet. 

She looked over and saw Idina had fallen asleep. _Should I wake her and get her to bed_? Kristin pondered until she heard the dull roar of Idina beginning to snore. While this was probably a hard-earned sleep, she couldn’t be too comfortable in that position. 

“C’mon, sweetie,” Kristin gently rousted Idina. “Time to go to bed.” 

Idina blinked, sat up and rubbed her eyes. “I fell asleep?” 

“Yeah. It’s been a long time since I had to roust you from a stupor.” 

“I’m not drunk.” 

“No, but you’ve have enough for the day. Get your ass moving.” 

“Yes, _mother_!” 

Kristin escorted Idina to her bed, and pulled the covers over her. Only a couple of minutes passed before she fell asleep again. 

_Good-night, little sister_ , Kristin thought, tucking a stray hair back behind Idina’s ear. _And I **will** talk to God for you tonight_. She then walked out and closed the bedroom door behind her. 

  
**Next Time: Chapter 4 – The Dark Road Curves**. Idina cracks. Spider-Man confronts the Goblin Queen. And something else happens that I can’t tell you about right now.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> While the "official" behind the scenes tale of _Wicked_ has yet to be written, based upon my research, of the other four actresses competing for the role, Julia Murney was the runner-up.
> 
> In the comic book Marvel Universe, there _is_ a Goblin Queen character related to the X-Men, but this Goblin Queen is unrelated to that one. In fact, the X-Men, at least as a team, probably don’t exist in my continuity. _My_ Goblin Queen wears a practical, functional combat-ready costume and footwear and looks somewhat similar to other Goblins. She bares no skin and doesn't wear high heels fighting crime because that is just **stupid** , as in Halle Berry _Catwoman_ stupid. I really hate the way women are often drawn in comics.
> 
> I don't believe Kristin and Idina hate each other, nor, as much perverse fun as it is to speculate, were in love with each other, or frankly, are even close friends. Occasionally, for a moment in time, heavenly bodies from vastly divergent directions wind up in the same orbit, but they continue moving on and apart again, never to re-converge.


	4. The Dark Road Curves

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Idina cracks, jeopardizing her relationship with Kristin and discovering a _**lot**_ more is wrong than she could ever imagine. And Spider-Man finally meets the Goblin Queen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> A lot happens in this chapter. A lot. And then there's the ending which may be a shark jumping moment.

_It kinda looks like a giant phallus. Or a Lego tower._

Spider-Man squatted on the Empire State Building's antenna tower, elbows on his knees, face in his hands. It was one of his favorite vantage points, as from here he could see the entire width and breadth of Manhattan Island, and into the outer boroughs. The north side provided the best view of New York's architectural majesty, as it included the Chrysler Building, the Met Life Building, and the former GE Building/30 Rockefeller Center/Soon-to-be-rebranded-Comcast Building, among others. The glowing red, blue, and green antennas scattered among the sea of lights glowed like a gigantic Lite Brite board. Ironically, Times Square, with its mammoth LED screens celebrating consumer decadence, was almost completely obscured. 

With the 86th and 102nd floor observation decks open to the public until two a.m., it wasn't until the _really_ wee hours of the morning he had the view to himself. At times he was as much of a tourist attraction as the top of the building itself. _"If you look straight up you can see New York's very own Friendly Neighborhood Spider-Man eating his two cheeseburger meal from McDonald's as he watches over the city, searching for signs of villainy and violations of the public trust,"_ he imagined the tour guide's narration. For decades, the Empire State Building had been New York City's magnetic north, visible from anywhere on the ground in Manhattan, used by many a lost and weary traveller to guide them to their ultimate destination. For nearly 40 years, until the topping of the original World Trade Center in 1970, it was the world's tallest building. Each year, however, it tumbled further down the list and Spider-Man focused on another usurper, the monstrosity that for the last three years was gradually altering the view of his fair city – 432 Park Avenue. 

_Tallest residential building in the Western Hemisphere. Guess that’s pretty damn tall_. 

It would be the city’s largest shrine to opulent living, a monument to excess and privilege, 150 feet taller than the Empire State and almost 30 feet taller than One World Trade Center. At its peak one could see from the Hudson to the East River, the Bronx to Brooklyn, Central Park to the Atlantic Ocean. A 20-degree temperature differential was noted between the ground floor and the top. After nearly 20 years, there wasn’t a skyscraper in New York Spider-Man hadn’t used to propel himself through the air on a web line, or hadn’t crawled or strolled along the side. Except that one. He avoided it for reasons he didn’t entirely fathom. It didn’t blend in with Midtown’s other buildings, wasn’t an indigenous part of the cityscape. And, of course, there was the message he felt it sent. 

_Another place where **I** have no place. Another reminder of the difference between **us** and **them**_. 

The cheapest of the 104 condos cost $7 million, with the penthouse going for $95 million. Although virtually sold out, it was expected to be only 25% occupied at any one time as it didn’t even cater to _America's_ filthy rich. Its clientele was Middle Eastern oil magnates, Chinese billionaires, Russian oligarchs and Latin American aristocracy, all needing a place to hide their money from their governments and taxing authorities, or the populace from which they stole it. U.S. real estate was ideal for that task. 

But it wouldn’t be the tallest for long as the title would be bequeathed to 225 West 57th, the Nordstrom Tower, upon that building's completion. And those were only two of several such monstrosities going up, as cranes littered the cityscape. New York's skyline would permanently change, and not for the better, he thought. 

_Maybe I’m just a jealous, bitter, angry old superhero. If I’d stayed on the entertainment career track, I’d be able to afford a place in that building. I could court gorgeous divas, and give Aunt May everything she always wanted. But I screwed it all up when I let that Burglar get by me because I’d become too self-indulgent to give a rat’s ass about anything other than myself. And the greatest man I ever knew paid for it with **his** life. Wish some so-called Omnipotent Power would explain how that was even remotely just. I’ve spent over half my life trying to atone for that one act of hubris – and will likely spend the rest of it doing so as well_. 

Other than morbid self-flagellation, the primary purpose of tonight's patrol, and those of the last several nights, was looking for the so-called “Goblin Queen” ( _not much effort went into that name_ ) sporadically sighted in the city over the last several weeks. It was more than coincidence this character first appeared around the time Osborn’s daughter, Sarah, went AWOL from SHIELD, where she was trying to find a place as one of their super-powered operatives, while accessing facilities to help arrest her accelerated aging. While the Goblin Queen had not engaged in any criminal activity since her first documented appearance, the Goblin track record was not good. If he could break Osborn’s hold over Sarah, it would be _something_ he could do for Gwen after all of these years – to help give her daughter some semblance of control over her own destiny. And for poor Harry, to ensure at least one of his siblings (though unknown to him) didn’t meet his fate. But now it was four am and she had stood him up again. 

_Nothing tonight. But I’ll be out here every night until I find her. I’m not going to let this stand. This is an insult to Gwen’s memory. I lost _her_ to Osborn’s madness. I’ll not let him destroy her daughter as well_. 

"Time to pack it in for the night, old friend," he said in mock conversation with the building. "Don’t worry, none of these hoity-toity new-fangled projects will ever replace you in my heart." 

He lept off the spire, falling more than 40 floors before snagging another skyscraper with his webbing and swinging up in a long arc, letting go as he reached the apex of the swing. As momentum propelled him through the air, he spread his arms out in a classic flying superhero pose. 

At first he began to hum _He floats through the air with the greatest of ease_ , but then something else crowded its way into his consciousness. _I may be flying solo, but at least I’m flying free_. 

_Now why the hell would that come to mind all of a sudden_? 

_Because I’m a damn moron and I never learn_. 

  


Idina was jarred from slumber by sounds and smells she hadn’t experienced upon awakening in the early morning hours for some time – coffee brewing and breakfast cooking – both beyond her five year old roommate's expertise. With one eye closed and staggering from bed and into the kitchen, she was greeted by the impeccably dressed, impossibly cheery Kristin, currently setting the table for one. 

“Well, hello there, Beautiful. Sleep well?” Kristin asked. “Sit down. I just finished up breakfast for you.” _How does she do it? With all of her ailments? How does she fucking do it? And since when does **she** cook?_ Idina asked herself, knowing she would likely never crack the secret of that blonde, four foot eleven Energizer Battery. 

****

“Kris – why? Really, you shouldn’t…” 

“Hush, Sweetie. Sit down, sit down! I’ll ask again – how did you sleep?” 

“As good as can be expected I suppose,” Idina responded, sliding into a chair as Kristin poured a cup of coffee and loaded a breakfast plate with scrambled eggs and pancakes. “It was actually one of my better nights. I didn’t have the nightmares, and I didn’t wake up sore all over like I do some mornings. Maybe because I haven’t worked out lately. Kris…I know we haven’t been the closest of friends… ” 

“Shhh. Nothing more needs sayin'.” 

“Maybe not for you, but _I_ need to say it. I appreciate you taking the initiative in getting together. I-I really needed last night. I haven’t had a release like that…well, in a long time. I’ve not even let Cara see that because I don’t want to worry or upset her. But you…well...” 

“I’ve seen worse out of you.” 

Although Idina feigned offense with “I’m not sure how to take that,” it was the truth. As Kristin alluded to in an interview when asked for the umpteenth time whether she and Idina hated each other, no outsider could know what they put themselves, or each other, through in San Francisco and New York as _Wicked_ was pain-stakingly and pain-fully molded into the smash musical it eventually became. There was simply no point in trying to explain it, no matter what wild speculation their virtual silence about the subject fed. 

“I really need to get going,” Kristin said, looking at her phone. "I’ve got physical therapy this morning and a couple of interviews on top of my usual voice prep." 

“You’re _still_ in therapy? After all this time?” 

“Yeah, and probably will be for the rest of my life in some form or fashion. I didn’t reveal how serious my accident really was when it happened. Like I said last night, I don’t know how the hell you came back, Dee, from what you went through. I’m just not the miracle healer you are, I suppose.” 

“Miracle healer, my ass. Yeah, I’ve got yoga class and then meetings the rest of the day. Sometimes it feels like being a corporate CEO rather than just a singer.” 

_”Idina, Inc.?_ That’s kind of catchy.” 

“Sounds like the name of a tattoo parlor." 

At that moment, Kristin's phone vibrated. "There's my cab.” Her belongings were already stacked at the front door and as Idina showed her out, Kristin made another offer. 

“Look, if Walker’s not coming back until Monday, why don’t we do something again Sunday, after my matinee? Just a fun girls' evening out since no old baggage needs airing? It’s the stretch run for my show and I'll need to stick to my monastic lifestyle as much as possible. Plus, you’re going to be on your tour and then I'm going on mine, and we're another year or so down the road.” 

“I’d like that. And I promise not to have an emotional meltdown this time.” 

  
_Sunday_

“Are you in a hurry to get back home?” Kristin asked Idina as they left the restaurant. 

“No. Why?” 

“I just thought we’d walk around a little. I heard this area's been gentrified quite a bit and is pretty artsy fartsy now.” 

“I guess. Never had a burning desire to come here, since it was once called the crack capital of America. I suppose that was a long time ago, but I really don’t know my way around these parts. Still think we should have stayed in Manhattan.” 

“I haven’t been off Manhattan since I came back to the city. I’ve been living like a nun trying to conserve myself for the eight-shows-a-week slog. But getting together with _you_ is excuse enough to break the routine. Besides, it’s nice to find a place where there’s some breathing room between us and the next person and we have a little more anonymity than we might otherwise.” 

“These hats and glasses won’t fool anyone if you open that big mouth once too often. I sat there all evening worrying you were going to go table to table peddling your damned CD and DVD, like you did on every other tweet for six months. And whose bright idea was it to make your _ass_ the most prominent feature on the cover?” 

“You’re just jealous 'cause yours isn't as bootylicious as mine. But if you want both, I'll cut you a deal and even throw in my autobiography.” 

“I heard enough of your life story during _Wicked_ that it's burned in my brain, especially when you hurt your woohoo or whatever you call it. Wait a minute – where the fuck are we? Aren’t we a little bit off the beaten path?” 

“I thought you knew, you’re a native.” 

“That’s the other end of the island. Dammit, why is it when I’m with…” Idina then became cognizant of a white van creeping by. As she turned to give it her full attention, it stopped, the doors opened, and four men jumped out, all wearing cheap plastic masks. Each woman was grabbed by a different assailant, with one arm wrapping tightly around their waists and a hand clamping over their mouths. The men began dragging the women toward the open door while their partners stood prepared to assist loading them into the van. Kristin tried to scream and struggle, but at four foot eleven and barely a hundred pounds her efforts were futile. Idina's would be captors, however, faced a steeper challenge. 

After Idina felt the arm circle her waist and the hand clamp over her mouth, she easily broke her assailant's grasp, turned and delivered a sharp left cross across the jaw that visibly ejected blood and teeth from under the mask before he fell to the ground. Her other attacker, stunned by his partner's effortless dispatching, took a foot in the middle of his face. A large red pool collected where his nose was shattered and he also collapsed and remained still. 

By now one of Kristin’s assailants had successfully pulled her into the van and the other was climbing in after them. Idina quickly approached the latter, slammed his head on the van’s floorboard, then cast him down. 

“ _Go, go!_ ” the increasingly panicked man holding Kristin yelled at the driver. Idina lept onto the edge of the open door and held on as the van began rolling. She was running on adrenalin and instinct, not processing what she was doing or how. After pulling herself into the van she moved toward the driver, wrapped her left arm around his seat and neck and shouted “Stop or I’ll break your fucking neck!” 

Before the van gained much momentum, the driver swerved off the road and slammed the brakes. As Idina released her grip, he pushed the transmission stick into park and tried to bolt out the door. She grabbed him by the collar, dragged and flung him down onto the floorboard in the back where she punched him across the face, rendering him immobile. Kristin, her mouth agape, and her captor, the last remaining assailant, were transfixed on Idina’s physical display. He tightened his grip on the blonde and pulled out a gun. 

“Stay away you crazy bitch or I’ll - !” 

Before he completed his threat, Idina's hand was already around his wrist and squeezing. His face contorted in pain, his mouth emitted a strangled cry and he dropped his weapon. Breathing heavily, Kristin scampered away and sat with her back against the side of the van, trying to calm herself before she was stricken with an asthma attack or vertigo. 

“Not so helpless are we, you fucking bastard?!” Idina screamed as she crouched above him, shaking his wrist while he continued howling. "You thought two women by themselves would be easy prey, didn’t you? Well the fucking joke's on you, isn't it - _**isn't it?**_ ” 

“Stop! Please stop!" he begged, crying out again as Idina responded by _increasing_ the pressure. Kristin's mood changed from relief to worry as not only was Idina oblivious to the harm she was causing - she was also clearly enjoying it. 

“Let him go,” Kristin said firmly, as she crawled toward the pair, hoping the line wouldn't be interpreted as a bad joke. 

“No.” It was a quiet, terse refusal, but laced with ferocity. Kristin had seen Idina's moods and emotions run the gamut, but never anything like _this_. Her teeth were gritted, her mouth almost curled into a snarl, and her eyes were on fire. As Idina slowly drew her other hand back, clenching the fingers into a fist, Kristin feared her intention was not simply to render the man unconscious. 

“ _Stop!_ ” Kristin screamed. She grabbed Idina’s raised arm with both hands, trying to hold it fast, but immediately sensed her effort was doomed to fail. _She's too strong! She's going to kill him!_ “For the love of God, Dee, _ **STOP!**_ ” 

The increasing panic in Kristin’s voice finally snapped Idina’s laser-like focus. Her body relaxed and shoulders sagged. She released the man, lowered her fist, and dropped to her knees. For what seemed like the first time since the ordeal began, Idina took a deep breath and exhaled as the man lay sobbing, holding onto his wrist with the other hand. 

“We need to call the police,” Kristin whispered as she released Idina’s arm and regained her own breath. The rage on the brunette's face was gone, replaced by a blank expression almost suggesting a drug-induced stupor. 

“We _need_ to call the police!” Kristin repeated, more intensely. 

Idina sharply turned to face Kristin, her anger reignited. “NO! No police!” Suddenly, she dropped her head and pressed her palms against it. “Not again!” she screamed. 

Kristin desperately wanted to believe this was a nightmare, that this couldn't be happening to them. She was exhausted, her neck and head throbbing, but the pain was dwarfed by the magnitude of the situation. If not obvious before, something was _really_ wrong with Idina. Common sense demanded they call the police and go to a hospital. Yet, there was the little issue of her going Amazon Warrior Princess on these bastards. How the _hell_ did she do that? As Idina was already precipitously balanced on an emotional tightrope before this incident, Kristin couldn’t imagine subjecting her to a police interrogation, or coping with the inevitable publicity. If she could get her home, perhaps Idina would calm down and they could devise a rational action plan. 

_I don’t even know if I can get her home while she's like this. What do I do? And where's her purse?_ Kristin's had been dropped in the van, but Idina’s was nowhere in sight, probably back on the street. Someone stealing her cash and plastic would pale compared to revealing her presence here tonight. Soon enough, someone would notice the van and report it. 

As fate, or as Kristin preferred to think, Providence, would have it, when she peered out the van door, a cab approached. The plan springing to mind wasn’t ideal, but was the best from a batch of bad alternatives. She turned to Idina, who was still on her knees, palms pressed against her head. At least she wasn't crying out in agony anymore. 

“Dee! A cab! Can you walk? We have to get out of here!” 

“Adele,” came a low, pained voice. 

**“What?”** _Is she trying to be funny? At a time like this_? 

“Adele,” she heard again, with no hysterics, only a quiet certainty. 

Kristin looked quizzically at Idina, but quickly returned to the more pressing matter of facilitating their departure. She grabbed her purse, jumped out of the van and flagged down the taxi. The driver greeted her with a stunned "what the hell just happened here" expression as he lowered his window. His attention soon was diverted to the wad of cash Kristin pulled from her purse. 

“You never saw us! _You got that_?” she demanded with as much menace as her distinctive voice would allow, the finger of one hand jabbing at the driver, the digits on the other clenched around the cash. She wasn't sure how much she held, but enough bills were visible to accomplish her objective. 

“No problem,” the driver responded in a thick accent. Kristin knew this was a huge gamble, but since many cabbies made $30,000 a year or less, and one in five were illegals, she calculated the odds leaning toward the driver maintaining discretion. She also hoped he would chivalrously "rescue" two attractive women from a band of thugs, no questions asked. 

Kristin pulled Idina out of the van and pushed her into the cab's backseat, while telling the driver to take them back up the street hoping she would spot Idina’s purse. Fortunately, it was there, along with the still prone figures of three attackers Idina had effortlessly dispatched. “Don't say one word until we get you home,” she whispered into Idina’s ear as the driver headed toward Manhattan. 

Although preferring to take Idina straight home, she didn’t trust the driver _completely_. She directed him to the nearby East Village where she knew a flotilla of parked or circling cabs would be canvasing area hotels. At the first hotel where she spotted a line of waiting cabs, she ordered the driver to stop at the last in line, farthest from the hotel entrance. She paid him and the two women piled into another taxi for the remainder of the trip to Idina’s apartment. The plan was hardly foolproof, and the transfer was probably too hasty and obvious to both drivers, but any idling risked at least one cell phone capturing the moment. Kristin imagined the blogosphere exploding with such headlines as “Too Much Witches' Brew - Kristin Shoves Soused Idina Into Taxi,” which would only be the start as Chenzel fandom went nuclear. Fortunately, while Idina was in obvious pain, she closed her eyes, gritted her teeth, and toughed it out with a minimum of noise. 

Upon arrival at the apartment, Kristin sat her on the living room couch. 

"Let me get you some pills and water." 

"Bring me the whole bottle!" Idina's pained voice carried through the apartment as Kristin returned with the items. Once again, she downed an undetermined number. 

“Do you need a doctor?” Kristin asked after blessedly taking her own medication. 

“NO!” Idina angrily responded. 

“What if this is an aneurysm?” 

“No doctor!” Unlike the instant relief the medication provided her last week, the improvement was notably slower tonight. 

“Should I call 911?” 

“ _ **Goddammit, would you just shut your big fucking mouth**_?” 

Beyond her obvious pain, Idina's rising anger also frightened Kristin. The brunette had always been moody and temperamental, capable of hurling solid objects at whatever or whoever angered her, but something darker was at work here. While empathetic with Idina's turmoil, Kristin was now out of cheeks to turn. 

“Don’t you _dare_ talk to me that way! What the hell is really going on, Dee?" 

Idina’s head still pounded, and she was doubled over, her hands at her temples. Kristin grabbed her shoulders and knelt to look into her face, the tightly closed eyelids and gritted teeth testifying to her continued agony. Concern replaced anger in Kristin’s mind and voice. “Dee – what _is_ it? _Please_ let me help you! What is _really_ going on? Is it because of what happened with those guys from the van, and how you took them out so quickly?” 

Idina lifted her head. The pain was finally subsiding, but the anger, however, was not. 

“I told you, I’m taking martial arts courses and working out more!” 

“Bull _ **shit**_! Dee, you beat _five_ men - no - you didn't beat them, you _destroyed_ them! That driver had to weigh over 200 pounds and you dragged him from the front of the van to the back and nearly crushed the other man’s wrist! Not to mention I thought you were going to _kill_ him if I hadn't stopped you! I’m sorry, but I'm not buying karate lessons or weight training! Are you on drugs or some kind of crazy steroid or something?” 

“NO! You have a problem with what I did? Those bastards tried to kidnap us! You know what they would have done to us? I’m not going to be helpless anymore, Kris! If anyone, _anyone_ , threatens me or those I care about, _I'm going to rip them limb from fucking limb_!” 

“Sweetie, I’ve never heard you talk like this before.” Kristin feared Idina wasn't simply angry, but becoming psychotic, as the glare on her face as she slowly rose from the couch seemed to validate. Kristin stood as well to brace herself for whatever happened next. 

“Well that was _before_ I spent hours tied up and gagged while a maniac joked, _joked_ about killing me! _Before_ I stood on a gallows with a fucking noose around my neck! _Before_ I was trapped in a burning building falling apart around me! _Before_ I introduced my five-year-old son to a monster who's murdered God knows how many people! Besides, isn’t that how you people handle things?” 

“What do you mean, _you people_?” 

“Isn’t that how you rednecks handle things in Oklahoma? Western justice? An eye for an eye? I’m not so sure that’s a bad idea anymore.” 

“ _Redneck_? I wanted to call the police! We ran from a fucking crime scene, Dee! After you beat the shit out of five men! FIVE MEN! And I aided and abetted you in getting away! But I know how things have been for you lately and I wanted to give you time to get your head together and spare you the publicity!” 

“Are you saying we should've called a fucking press conference? Sorry I’m not the fame whore you are - pimping my ass for $50 and a photo op whenever I get bored or lonely!” 

“Oh, you wanna talk about being a whore? How about those rumors early on in your marriage about – “ 

“Don’t you dare!” 

“And where's your husband now? If he saw you like _this_ , no wonder he bailed and looked for someone less fucking crazy! The only mystery is why he didn’t take your son with him!” 

“Oh look who's talking about marriage! At least I had the guts to _get_ married! Instead of being a cowardly, ball busting, white trash Jesus freak who has to live with a goddamn dog for company!” 

That finally did it. Her lower lip trembling, tears falling down her cheeks, the anger in her face replaced by hurt and anguish, Kristin slapped Idina's face with as much force as she could muster. Although the slap had the force to turn Idina’s face to the right, she barely felt it. Regardless of Kristin’s small stature, Idina still expected her cheek to sting, but judging from Kristin’s reaction, striking Idina hurt her own hand more than Idina’s face. Amused rather than angry, the brunette smiled and delivered another acid-tongued insult. 

“You’re losing your touch, Kris. You slapped much harder when you only _pretended_ to hit me during _Wicked_!” 

Kristin moved her hand to her mouth as the latter fell open. Her eyes widened and she shook her head in disbelief. The womens' spats during their _Wicked_ run could be nasty, but Kristin had never, _ever_ seen Idina look so _malevolent_. It seemed like a darkness had completely taken hold of her. 

“My god, Dee! _What’s wrong with you?_ ” 

“What’s wrong with me?! _YOU slapped ME!_ You wanna try again, Okie from Muskogee? Maybe this time I'll actually feel it!” 

Idina moved closer, and Kristin, her face contorted in horror, backed away, but stumbled and fell onto the floor. As she quickly scampered away on all fours, her desperation to put distance between them finally gave Idina pause and a moment to reflect on her behavior. She stepped back, gasped, and cupped her hands over her mouth, tears streaming down her face. 

“Oh my god! Oh my god! I am so sorry, Kris! _I am **so** sorry_!” 

“So am I!” Kristin shouted as she stood and walked to the table where her purse lay. Grabbing it and slinging it over her shoulder, she stormed toward the front door. 

“No, Kris, please don’t leave!” Idina pleaded desperately as she followed the blonde. 

“Why, so you can finish the job?” Kristin shouted over her shoulder. After grabbing the door handle, she turned to face the swiftly approaching Idina. “What were you going to do, Dee, beat the shit out of me, too? You didn’t get enough blood on your hands earlier?” As Idina followed her out into the hallway, Kristin stopped, turned and held up her phone. “Dee, if you don’t go back to your apartment right now, I’m calling the cops.” 

“Kris, you wouldn’t!” 

“I sure as hell would! Look, I _really_ want to help you. I know you’ve been through a lot and I feel sorry for you, but I do not take this bullshit from _anyone_! You need to go back to your doctor for some stronger meds or tell him to have you locked up before you hurt someone – _especially your own son_!” Kristin proceeded toward the elevator while Idina stood and watched her friend leave. After returning to her apartment and closing the door, she dropped to the floor and put her head in her hands. 

_I’ve become a monster! We've had nasty fights and said horrible things to each other before, but nothing like this! What's happening to me?_

She rose up, ran into her bedroom and frantically searched for sleeping pills, desperate to knock herself out and put the evening behind her. Even if she could sleep, it would be a fitful, tormented night. 

  


Although she couldn't fathom why, the Goblin Queen felt compelled to come here tonight. 

After crossing the East River, she slowed her glider down and gently descended to the street. She stepped off after demagnetizing her boots and examined the surroundings. It was darker and quieter here than most of Manhattan at the same hour and she felt strangely content. Norman Osborn's fondness for the night now made sense. At times, the light felt smothering, claustrophobic, attracting unwelcome visitors drawn to it. By contrast, the dark, after frightening and repelling most such invaders, warmly embraced those bold enough to stay, blessing them with a serenity and peace denied those who worshipped the sun. 

While reluctant to break the mood, she clicked on the small flashlight she pulled from the green satchel slung over her torso. Staying aloft using the glider's floodlight would have covered more territory in less time, but she wanted to be on the ground, as close as possible to whatever she hoped to find. There had been a disturbance here, something that mysteriously chilled her. She shone the light on an unusual dark spot on the pavement and dropped to one knee to study it. _Blood?_ However, before she could ponder further, a familiar, and highly annoying, voice disturbed the evening’s calm. 

“If you’re looking for that quarter you dropped, it’s mine now. Finder’s keepers, losers weepers.” 

Rising and shining her light in the voice's direction was only a formality. She didn't have to see the man adhered to the wall of a nearby building to know who it was. 

“While I wouldn't have normally chosen here as an ideal place to meet women, it’s been a long night and I’m getting a little desperate - Sarah.” 

“Can’t you ever mind your own goddamn business, Peter?” the Goblin responded with not just annoyance, but a hint of hurt feelings as well. A distortion device pressed against her throat while she wore the mask disguised her voice, but her response, reflecting a knowledge of his true identity, told Spider-Man his guess was right. "Why I’m here has _nothing_ to do with you!" she continued. "In fact, NONE of this is any of your fucking business!” 

Spider-Man sprang from the wall, in one jump landing approximately ten feet from her. Aggravating though he was, she found herself awed upon demonstration of his powers, even those not based on raw strength. His movements were so graceful and fluid it seemed incomprehensible they originated with a radioactive spider-bite, un-supplemented by dance or gymnastics lessons. 

“You made it my business when you soiled your mother’s memory by aligning with that bastard father of yours!” Spider-Man angrily stated as he walked toward the Goblin, gesturing at her. “He murdered your mother while wearing a variation of that abominable Goblin costume.” 

The Goblin shook her head, responding contemptuously, as she walked backed to the glider and stepped on it “You really think -? You're nowhere near as smart as you think you are, Peter. Just stay the hell out of my way!” 

“It’s over Sarah!” Spider-Man readied a sprint to reach the Goblin when she quickly raised a finger and her glove discharged a electrical power burst, an action he anticipated and easily avoided. Still, that brief distraction allowed her to kick the glider’s gyros into action and take to the air. Spider-Man shot a web line from each wrist, one attaching to the Goblin’s back and the other to the glider's bottom. Affixing himself to the pavement with his clinging ability, he held fast until the glider’s movement stretched the webbing to its maximum elasticity, then yanked on the line clinging to the Goblin’s back. As her boots were magnetically adhered to the glider, pulling on her body upended them both, which resulted in losing control of the glider's momentum. Knowing she'd impact with the street before she could pull out a razor bat and cut the lines, she turned off the glider and severed the magnetic connection between it and her boots in an attempt to mitigate the speed at which she crashed to the pavement. 

Based on his experiences with predecessor Goblins, knowledge of the Goblin Formula's effects, and the likely composition of her costume's body armor, Spider-man felt reasonably assured crashing from that height wouldn’t critically wound her, only stun her enough to give him the upper hand as he attempted to reason with her. But her stillness as he approached concerned him. 

_Dammit! That was still a hard fall. I’d never forgive myself if she's seriously hurt._

Ignoring the faint buzzing in his skull, Spider-Man came upon the Goblin Queen’s prone form, face down in the street. Suddenly she turned over and splayed all ten fingers in his direction, discharges from each one hitting him, knocking him off his feet. While not enough to burn or hurt him severely, he was blinded and disoriented long enough for her to hastily exit. 

He sat up and sighed heavily, thoroughly disgusted. _How could I have been so damn careless? How many years have I been doing this? I was so worried about hurting her I didn’t think how determined she might be to fight back when cornered. I should have unloaded a cartridge of webbing on her while she was down before approaching her. When it comes to Gwen - or Sarah - I always seem to have my head up my ass._

  


Struggling to stay conscious, the Goblin Queen could no longer stand on the glider. She knelt as she sailed over the Brooklyn Bridge into Manhattan, then turned on the cloak. Its energy consumption required it be sparingly used, but she couldn’t chance being spotted as she sought her "safe house," the top floor of a building owned by Osborn through a chain of dummy companies. Closing in on the building, she keyed in a security code from the PAD attached to her belt. A brick façade slid open and allowed her to glide in, closing as she cleared the entrance. The glider made an awkward, graceless landing and she staggered off. 

Osborn was right. She was ill-prepared to confront Spider-Man. Only his overwhelming desire to avoid hurting her coupled with the fear he had done so when he brought the glider down allowed her to escape. Were he game for a real fight, he would have incapacitated her with minimal effort. 

She dropped onto a nearby bed and landed on her back. Her last action before losing consciousness was pulling off her mask and dropping it beside her on the bed. 

  
Idina groaned loudly as she rolled over onto her side, struggling with uncooperative muscles. _I didn't work out yesterday, so why do I hurt all over? And I have such a headache. It feels like a hangover, but I don’t remember drinking last night._ She gasped loudly and quickly sat straight up once she saw her hands. 

_**"WHAT THE FUCK??!"**_ she yelled, noticing the green gloves covering them. As her eyes moved along her arms, she saw she was clothed in a black body suit. But the coup de grace that prompted a blood-curdling scream was the green mask on the bed, its opaque eyes staring back at her. 

  
**Next Time: Chapter 5 – Some Two-Faced Lying Freak.** Well what do you _think_ Idina is going to do next? It’s Idina vs. Osborn, and if I were you – I wouldn’t wager a whole lot on Norman.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yeah, I went there, straight into seriously fanficky material. But that's where the story led me.


	5. Some Two-Faced Lying Freak

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Idina tries to cope with her recent discovery and the impact it will have on her life. Desperate for answers, she finds that she has no choice but to confront the man himself, Norman Osborn. Place your bets.

  
_Thirty Years ago_

The young man by the hospital bed held his wife’s left arm upright, her limp hand within both of his, his forehead gently resting on them. While those unfamiliar with him might reasonably draw the conclusion he was praying, he could not recall a moment that he ever had. "Gods" were for superstitious fools, not men of science. Alone in the room, the couple's only accompaniment were the machines faithfully monitoring every fading heartbeat. She had experienced total organ failure, her breathing continued to weaken, and she was comatose. 

Her health had steadily declined since her son was born, but she hid that from her husband for as long as she could. It had not been easy for him, after all, trying to revive the family business after his father sent it down in flames. Sometimes she didn't see him for days, and many nights when he did come home, he was exhausted and angry, physically and mentally depleted. His spirits rebounded when she became pregnant, and she never saw him happier than when he first held their infant son. She didn’t want to take that from him, nor distract him from accomplishing the things so important to him, because as he had stated innumerable times, it was for _her_ as well. Beginning with their engagement, he entertained her with wild and improbable stories of the things he would do for her and their expected children. 

Well, _she_ considered them stories, but he steadfastly maintained they would one day be undisputed fact, becoming annoyed when she let slip a doubting chuckle or sigh. Of course, that boundless ambition combined with his staggeringly brilliant intellect were reasons she was drawn to him when they met in school. While there was more to him than that, he let none but her see it. Beyond the ambition and intellect, the rest of the world was exposed only to the arrogance and ego. Thus, their contemporaries could tolerate him only when she was also present. “What would you do without me?” she often teased after again skillfully navigating him through another social situation which frustrated and angered him. She would laugh and delight in needling him over his lack of public graciousness since she was the _only_ one who could, and hers was the only counsel he genuinely considered. But he was getting better, she thought. She’d whip him into shape by the time they reached 30 years old. 

But she didn’t know how he would handle _this_ , so she concealed it. She was also desperate to maintain her job, as her employment paid their living expenses and provided what health insurance they had. But, her body finally betrayed her, and now it was almost over. 

_All of my knowledge…everything I am…or hope to be…means nothing if I can’t save you…if you aren’t here to share it with me,_ he agonized as he gripped her hand, believing as long as he held it, he could forestall the inevitable. 

_If you had told me sooner you were sick, I would have had more time to find a solution. I would have done better than these charlatans with their potions and elixirs. You sacrificed everything for me, for **my** dreams. Nothing, NOTHING was worth your life! If I had known this would be the price..._

_Emily, why didn’t you tell me?_

_I’ll never again watch you command a stage like only you could, whether in the theater or doing a silly medley of show tunes for acquaintances. I’ll never again wake up in the morning to your beautiful voice coming from the kitchen as the smell of breakfast wafts through the air. I’ll never again lay in bed and listen to you sing “Edelweiss" to lull Harry back to sleep when he wakes up crying in the middle of the night._

_I don’t think I’m capable of raising our son by myself. I don’t have your compassion, your patience, your capacity for forgiveness. I’ve relied on you to help me cope with the vermin and parasites that comprise humanity. Only for you do I make the effort._

The doctor stood just outside the room on the deathwatch. Physicians considered themselves too busy or important for such things, and when patients finally died, they preferred to leave the unpleasant duty of feigned sympathy to the nurses. This time, however, the nurses begged him to stay, fearful of the husband's reaction when his wife finally passed. Perpetually angry and argumentative, that man dissected every decision, every comment, every suggestion, convinced of his intellectual superiority. His frustration and rage often resonated well beyond his wife's room. Only their compassion for her, a truly sweet and lovely person before slipping into a coma precluded them from having him escorted out of the hospital, arrested, or surreptitiously thrown out the window. As the final days approached, he went silent, almost motionless as he spent the final hours at her side, waiting. It was the aftermath of the silence they feared, the certain release of unvented fury and grief. The doctor considered requesting hospital security accompany him outside the room, but given the husband's belligerence towards any authority, the mere presence of the officers might exacerbate, rather than remedy, the situation. 

After the woman's last breath, the doctor waited several minutes before entering. He carefully stood back from the bed, on the opposite side of her motionless husband, who was still holding onto her hand, with his head down. "I'm sorry, Mr. Osborn." “Mr. Osborn” said nothing, and was so still the doctor wondered if he had literally willed himself to die along with his wife.

Decades of practicing medicine had left the physician with many indelible memories, but this might have been one of the more alarming. Osborn raised his head, and, as the doctor later recounted to a colleague, it felt as if he had locked gazes with none other than the devil himself. 

“Spare me your pity, Shaman. I’m sure you have rain dances and ritual sacrifices to perform for your other patients.” 

Deciding that engaging Osborn would not only be a losing proposition, but also hinder his eagerly anticipated permanent departure from hospital premises, the doctor remained silent. He nervously watched as Osborn slowly stood, tenderly poisitioned his wife’s arms across her chest, fastened the top button on his dress shirt, and straightened his jacket and tie. The man always dressed formally, even on weekends, only discarding the jacket when sleeping on the couch in the room. 

“I have left instructions on the disposition of my wife’s remains. I trust we will not cross paths again,” he said with little emotion upon walking out of the room, acknowledging no other presences. As the nurses congregated around the doctor and watched Norman Osborn stride down the hall and into a waiting elevator, he whispered “tell security he’s coming, but that no one approach him. We certainly don’t want anything slowing him down on his way out.” 

As he exited the hospital, Osborn contemplated his immediate future. 

_It’s time to accept my would-be benefactors' offer. I wanted to focus my company's research on those things that would not only enrich me, but also better the lives of humanity, worthless though it is, because I thought by doing so I might save Emily. But I couldn’t save her. So now…the fucking world can **burn**. I’ll make their monsters. I’ll help unleash an era of chaos and destruction, and when they least expect it, seize control, and impose the order the world desperately needs. From this day forward, I shall perform no deed that does not ultimately serve ME_. 

  


_Oscorp Tower – last night._

“What the _fuck_ happened?” Norman Osborn demanded of his security chief who barely cleared the office door before Osborn lept to his feet shouting. He had been focused on the three-dimensional holographic displays emanating from his desk, including an outline of a human body surrounded by medical readings. The displays were new, an upgrade from last year after he damaged his existing furniture and equipment in a fit of rage upon learning of Idina’s kidnapping by Miles Warren. A wave of his hand terminated the displays as he spoke. 

“Heart rate, blood pressure, respiration, Beta Wave activity - everything exploded, then crashed, then rocketed upward again,” he continued as the chief quickened the pace to reach Osborn. _“Why?”_

“She and a companion were assaulted,” the chief responded upon reaching the other side of Osborn’s desk. 

“By _**whom**_?” Osborn’s anger bordered on frantic, fearful Idina had again been targeted by an adversary, perhaps even Warren himself, who he had every reason to believe survived last year’s incident at the Gershwin Theatre. 

****

“Marginal entities with no ties to criminal organizations _or_ supervillain associations,” the chief stated, emphasizing the latter to put his employer at ease – if that were remotely possible. “They were targeting women, and two unaccompanied females proved too alluring to pass up. Illegal substances in their bloodstreams contributed to their actions. A search through various databases suggests possible connections to other attacks within the last six months. All have criminal records. We have them in custody and the vehicle they were using. I have transmitted everything to your personal file. Do you wish to engage any of them prior to disposition?” 

Osborn studied the information on the monitor embedded in his desk, swiftly and repeatedly waving his hand across the screen as he proceeded to each record. Although employed with Osborn for several years, his security chief remained impressed at his skill in quickly assimilating large quantities of information. More than likely he possessed that talent even before receiving his “enhancements” several years ago. 

"Did any of them actually _touch_ Idina?" Osborn asked as he continued reading. 

"Some were unconscious and others unable to speak legibly, but best we can determine - they didn't get much of a chance." 

Osborn sat back in his chair and sighed, a wave of his hand turning his monitor dark. “No. Just take care of it. Stupid bastards. If this hadn’t been so initially upsetting I'd be more than delighted to ponder what went through their minds when this went south on them. Were there any witnesses? Were the authorities contacted?” 

“No witnesses except the cab driver who picked up the women at the location. It all happened quickly. The driver's background suggests he is unlikely to initiate contact with law enforcement.” Osborn's eyes narrowed as he pondered taking action on the driver, then decided against it. 

“He should buy a lottery ticket while his streak of good fortune lasts. There is a saying devoid of logic but nonetheless often true - “better to be lucky than good any day.” Who was with her?" The lack of a prompt response gave Osborn almost the last answer he wanted to hear. “Lovely,” he muttered. 

“Kristin Chenoweth.” 

“Make it a trifecta by telling me they were on their way to see Lea Michele for a _Glee_ reunion.” 

“Not that we were aware of, sir.” 

“That was a joke.” 

_Hard to tell with you sometimes_ \- a sentiment he chose not to verbalize. “How should we deal with Kristin Chenoweth?” 

“Now _you’re_ joking. Anything befalling her would invite far more scrutiny from the media and her cult following than I'm comfortable with. It's safe to assume she will keep Idina’s confidence.” 

An audible signal sounded from another point on Osborn’s desk. He tapped an embedded sensor panel and a three dimensional image of lower Manhattan Island appeared over the desk, a prominent dot of green light moving along the image. 

“Interesting. She’s taking a glider out. Based upon its current trajectory, she's returning to the scene of the kidnap attempt. Not unexpected given the circumstances.” 

“Should we "call" her in?” The security chief had served with Osborn for several years and was the only one privy to most of the man’s secrets, replacing Donald Menken whom Osborn had parted company with for unspecified reasons. He did not personally implement most of Osborn’s directives, but ordered and managed them, selecting the appropriate personnel. Formerly with the Secret Service, Osborn discovered him on the verge of a jail sentence for non-work related violent misconduct. It took no convincing to accept Norman’s offer of lucrative employment in exchange for the charges disappearing. As a result, Osborn had his unquestioned loyalty, although he felt he had exchanged one prison for another, albeit more comfortable, one. "Retirement” would not likely be a pension and beach house. Such was the Sword of Damocles over one's head when in the service of the sociopath who was also the Green Goblin. 

“No,” Osborn said quietly after a moment of contemplation. “The divide between the two personalities was increasingly tenuous, soon to be broken regardless. While these were not the circumstances I would have chosen for it to occur, the time could have been even less opportune. Knowing her, I believe she will come to _me_ very shortly.” 

  
_This Morning_

_Ohmigodohmigodohmigodohmigodohmigodohmigodohmigodohmigodohmigod!_

_I remember everything! EVERYTHING!!!_

_Norman you fucking bastard – **what did you do to me?**_

_What do I do now?_

_Peter! I have to talk to Peter!_

_Nonononononononono!_

Idina lay curled in a fetal position on the bed, shaking, crying and screaming, sometimes one after the other, sometimes simultaneously. She pressed her eyes shut, as if the tighter they were closed the more likely upon re-opening she would be in her own bed, sighing in relief that she had just awoken from another horrible nightmare. Finally, she stopped deluding herself, took a deep breath and sat upright. Several muscles still protested, although her condition had improved notably in contrast to when she collapsed on the bed earlier. 

_I don’t know whether to be grateful to Spider-Man that he didn't want to hurt me, or still kick him in the balls for sending me crashing into the street._

One of the myriad frightening things she was processing was that she knew the answers to several questions she was asking herself as soon as she posed them. It was as if she suddenly came into possession of another person’s memories, another person’s _life_. Training on the glider and using its weapons. Hand to hand combat drills. Flying around the city. Stopping robberies and assaults. Arguing with Norman. Facing Spider-Man. 

She grabbed the mask and made her way to the bathroom. Staring at the figure in the mirror, she felt she was looking at someone, or some _thing_ else, a demon that had taken up residence in her body and mind. 

_Thank God there are no bruises on my face. I would have had a hard time explaining those._

She cringed upon thinking of putting the mask back on, fearful that if she did she would no longer be Idina Menzel, but this “Adele” person Osborn had created, (obviously thinking himself so fucking funny). But, she had to see it, now that she was “Idina” again, from "Idina's" perspective. 

He must have also thought himself clever using Elphaba as a template for the Goblin Queen’s look. Although not identical, the resemblance was close enough anyone familiar with _Wicked_ would do a double take upon seeing her. A black skullcap simulating hair, styled with a split in the middle, topped the head. It wasn’t synthetic hair as it was comprised of the same material as the mask (which felt vaguely felt rubber, but was more comfortable and “breathed” better). The face wasn't as grotesque or cartoonish as Norman’s original Green Goblin version, and the pointed ears were not as large or elongated, more along the size and shape of Mr. Spock’s ears. The mask did not replicate Idina’s face, as it had a more severe, angular look. 

_It kind of looks like Willemijn Verkaik, although I doubt she'd consider the comparison a compliment._

The gloves were green while the rest of the body suit, including the boots, was black. The suit was surprising comfortable and lightweight and while it was form fitting, did not unnecessarily accentuate her natural assets, nor reveal any skin. Osborn was interested in comfort, freedom of movement and ease of storage, not in making the Goblin Queen a pin up girl. What looked like bracelets were around each wrist, comprised of several small metal canisters. Those around one wrist contained projectiles with compressed gas, a means of distracting and blinding an adversary, while the other included sharper projectiles intended to do more than simply distract. A green belt around the waist included several small compartments containing resupplies and other accessories. A harness along the shoulders and back held two fighting sticks, one that could eject a grappling hook, and the other could extend into a much longer version. The circuitry within the gloves fired bursts of electrical energy, as demonstrated on Spider-Man earlier. Then there was the satchel full of pumpkin bombs and razor bats she left on the floor near the bed. Osborn had turned her into a one woman army. 

Removing the mask, she walked around the floor, studying it from a new perspective. Osborn owned the building, with the entire top floor converted into a Goblin safe house, originally used by Norman himself, but modified for its new occupant. Of the two changing rooms, one including a wide array of civilian feminine apparel, and the other several additional Goblin Queen costumes. Whoever Osborn used to select the civilian clothing had good taste and an eye for what flattered her, although with a marked preference for black. Another room was an armory, with several variations of the glider lining the walls with accompanying munitions. The floor also included a bathroom stocked with medical and hygenic supplies, a shower, and kitchen. Clips of money were tucked away in a dresser drawer by the bed, necessary to pay for transportation back home after a night of doing whatever the hell people in costumes do. The dresser also included something she would need today, an Oscorp Tower photo ID for Idina Menzel allowing her access to the building and the executive floor. It wasn't the original prepared for her when she first visited the Tower, as that was lost when the Gershwin was destroyed last year. 

_That son of a bitch thinks of everything._

Sitting back on the bed, her mind frighteningly pondered the magnitude of the impact of this on her life and the people around her. 

_Walker! I can’t bring him back home when I’m like this! I don’t know if I can control it yet! I might accidentally hurt him. And he’s supposed to come back from Taye this week. I’ve got to make other arrangements without upsetting him or making anyone suspicious. And Kris – what do I say to Kris? “Sorry for acting crazy, calling you names and almost beating the shit out of you – but funniest thing! It turns out **I’m** the Goblin Queen flying around New York and I was having a severe identity crisis that night. But I’m much better now. How about Starbucks and Olive Garden on me?” I’m supposed to go on tour shortly! I’ve got meetings and conferences and interviews and rehearsals and publicity. How can I focus on any of that when I’m - I’m – like this? Peter. I have to talk to Peter. But when he finds out that was me last night, will he help me – or hate me? Will he think I’m under Osborn’s control? And how do I know I’m not?_

Her first outreach attempt to Peter was unsurprisingly fruitless, as he wasn’t answering his cell. She left a vague message trying to convey the situation's urgency without sounding completely frantic and unhinged - but was only partially successful in _that_. She considered another impromptu visit to his apartment, but wasn’t sure that wouldn’t be a complete waste of time – and would only delay the confrontation she _really_ needed to have. She didn’t know Mary Jane Watson, or the nuances of her relationship with Peter, but felt she knew enough to guess that one of the things that drew her to him, his sense of responsibility, was also a major irritant because he would be off doing something responsible when she really needed to talk to him. 

Idina had no idea what to tell Kristin, but she tried to apologize in desperate cell phone messages AND texts. Kris would likely be angry enough to ignore her for quite some time. During _Wicked_ they could become so infuriated with each other they would go several days interacting only while on stage, and that was sans psychotic behavior and display of enhanced strength. 

_Not that I can blame her. I was beyond insane last night. But was that because of what Norman did to me, or am I cracking up for real_? 

She devised a plan for the remainder of the day. Due to Norman’s thoroughness, she was able to shower and change into civilian clothing on site, selecting a modest black pantsuit and heels with a white shirt, and pulling her hair back in a ponytail. 

She descended in the private elevator to an underground tunnel leading to another elevator that took her to the ground floor level of yet another building Osborn owned, where she was able to exit discreetly. Anyone who _might_ have seen someone fly into the safe house would not subsequently see the same individual leave that building in her civilian identity. 

_If this hadn't fucked my life up so badly and the man wasn’t a fucking psychopath this might actually seem cool_. 

Now outside, she knew she could no longer delay the inevitable. She would have to go to the last place on Earth she wanted to be, and face the last man she wanted to see. She flagged a cab and supplied the driver with the destination. 

“Oscorp Tower.” 

She would have to journey into the heart of the Goblin’s Lair. 

  
Oscorp Tower was the centerpiece of Oscorp Plaza on Lexington Avenue in Midtown. In years past, it was a multi-tenant office building, home to the usual legal, accounting, and consulting professions, and the American headquarters of an Australian bank, with the surrounding blocks occupied by a dry cleaner, restaurants targeting the breakfast and lunch crowds, a CVS Pharmacy, etc. After making his first fortune, Osborn purchased the entire block, razed everything except the tower, and constructed an ornate plaza. When she first visited it with Norman, she was awed by the building's majesty and the technology it housed. Now it seemed a monument to one man’s ego, a middle finger to the rest of the world. Not an elegant comparison, she thought, but she wasn’t feeling particularly elegant right now. 

_Act calm, like you belong here,_ she reminded herself, passing through the tower's revolving doors. The surest way to be stopped and interrogated was to storm around like a crazy woman looking to gouge out someone’s eyes. 

She strode past the first security desk and waived her card over the electronic eye permitting entry to the primary elevator banks. Beyond those and down a corridor was the private elevator to the executive floor. For that she would need to present her Oscorp credentials to the guards at the dedicated security desk, and wait as they contacted Osborn’s administrative assistant for clearance. Relying on momentum, she was concerned even the slightest hesitation or delay would allow fear, or common sense, to assert itself, and send her hightailing it to the exits. However, as she drew close to the desk, neither of the two guards, although carefully watching her, seemed interested in engaging her. One nodded to the elevator, suggesting she could pass without incident. 

_Weird, but not going to complain. Just keep moving,_ she told herself as she stepped into the elevator, swiping her ID over the electronic eye to initiate ascent. 

The next to last hurdle once stepping off the elevator was the door to the executive offices, which she easily passed through as well. _That_ left only the administrative assistant, “Carolyn,” between her and Norman’s inner office. Carolyn was all of Oscorp Tower’s disdain for Idina in one six-foot tall, fiftyish, dyed blonde package. She was currently pre-occupied with a Fed Ex courier, but that would soon change. 

Idina learned, as with Osborn’s drivers, everyone in the tower was forbidden to engage her, other than with basic pleasantries and to address any of her questions. Her access to any non-secure area was not to be hindered or questioned, and any reasonable request immediately indulged. While another example of Norman's controlling behavior, she still welcomed the ability to casually stroll without pictures being snapped or something shoved in her face to sign or being taken aback by someone (or someones) stampeding towards her screaming. Everyone was notably deferential to her, which made her feel rather regal. 

But before long she realized she was _not_ popular within Oscorp Tower. She learned that in the most unlikely (or likely, depending on perspective) place. Norman needed to call a sudden, ad hoc Board meeting during one of her visits and she used that as an opportunity to explore the tower. While conducting "business" in the bathroom, two chatty employees unaware of her presence characterized her appearance, singing, acting, intelligence, et al in quite uncomplimentary terms. She initially assumed this dislike resulted from having children who frayed every last nerve with infinite showings of _Frozen_ or playing of the soundtrack. _That_ she understood ("Are you sick of me yet?" She asked one studio audience. "I'd be sick of me.") However, it was primarily a projection of the employees' dislike for Norman himself onto her, exacerbated by his demonstrative indulgence of her. That he wasn’t a beloved CEO was no surprise, for the reasons she suspected and had seen hints of, such as his explosive temperament, arrogance, and controlling nature. At the time she rationalized it as normal behavior in driven, goal-oriented professionals. 

Idina also presumed simple jealousy drove Carolyn’s barely concealed hostility, but Carolyn was the employee who despised Osborn the most. Upon learning Carolyn's extremely generous compensation given her position (based on a comment from Norman), Idina was appalled by her spite, but eventually realized beneficence was not behind Osborn's actions, but control. Carolyn's personal life was a train wreck of circumstances, self-inflicted as well as fate's cruel hand. Broken marriages, problem children, sick and aging parents and her own health issues made her Osborn’s prisoner, vulnerable to the cruelty he continually inflicted upon her to amuse himself. Her compensation allowed her to manage her myriad problems, but also ensured she could never leave Osborn's employ. Once Idina knew Norman's secrets, she wanted to feel sorry for the woman, but right now sympathy for the plight of others was far off her radar. 

“ _MA’AM_! Where do you think you going?” Carolyn shouted, turning from the courier and rushing to intercept Idina at Osborn’s door. 

“Where do you think – _Ma’am_? To see Norman Osborn,” Idina firmly stated, glaring at her at the door. At the moment, Idina was reminded the woman had more than half a foot on her, and looked solid enough to give men pause before challenging her. Idina had been somewhat intimidated by her in the past, but Osborn remedied that, didn't he? 

Carolyn knew their relationship was history, but that Osborn never revoked Idina's access didn’t surprise her. He had been totally enamored of the woman, as more than once she heard Idina's music upon entering Osborn’s inner office, and there were pictures of her on his PAD. While he never discussed his personal life, Carolyn doubted he was celibate, but could not recall him ever being smitten like this. He likely still was. 

“Mr. Osborn is not taking visitors now.” 

“Is that so? Well, tough shit! If he’s in there, he’s seeing me!” 

“Ma’am, I’ll call security if you don’t…” 

“And _Ma’aaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaaam_ , I’ll punch you in the fucking face if you don’t get out of my way!” 

_I can’t believe my daughter idolized this vulgar little bitch_ , Carolyn thought, running to her desk to contact security. 

As Osborn’s office doors were locked, Idina waived her badge over the scanner, but her access was denied. She could likely open them with sufficient force, but didn’t want people asking how Idina Menzel could break open large, secured, heavy wooden double doors. Instead, she pounded on one with an open hand. 

“ _Open the fucking door, Norman_!” she shouted, slapping it repeatedly. After a futile moment, she stormed to Carolyn’s desk, intending to turn on the intercom, but every control was embedded in the desk and nothing screamed “intercom.” _How the hell does anything work around here?_

“Turning on the fucking intercom,” she demanded. Carolyn waved her hand, opening a line. She had already contacted security. Let _them_ stick their necks out dealing with the crazy woman. Idina shouted, “ _Open the goddamn motherfucking door **now** , Norman or I’ll knock it down! And you know I will_!” 

“That won’t be necessary,” stated a strong and authoritative, but calm, voice behind her. She spun around to face the voice’s owner as he continued, “Carolyn, please cancel your security requests and return to your duties. This show has closed.” 

Idina last saw Norman Osborn when he visited her in the hospital after the Gershwin Incident. She told him good-bye, neither expecting nor wanting to see him again. But men such as Osborn were like an insidious cancer, seemingly purged, but capable of invading your life again and ravaging it as never before. For months, she feared he would do just that, but she had no conception of just how. 

“If you’re finished auditioning for a _Women on the Verge of a Nervous Breakdown_ revival, you can come in.” He stood calmly in the doorway, arms folded across his chest, impeccably dressed as usual, treating Idina’s raging intrusion as no less expected than a caterer bringing lunch. As Kristin alluded to earlier, it was inconceivable the man before her in the tailored suit was also a vicious murderer who haunted the night skies clad in a grotesque Halloween costume. She now knew Osborn well enough to notice the telltale signs of his double life. When they first met, he wore a green tie. Today, it was a silk emerald handkerchief tucked into his jacket pocket. He seemed proud of his garish alter ego and of how clever he perceived himself to be by hiding it in plain sight. No matter how dapper his appearance, he was still a monster who threw a 20-year-old girl off a bridge because of a grudge against a 20-year-old boy almost 15 years ago. That his victim was also the mother of two of his children may or may not have been a factor in her murder, but it added to the crime's horrific nature. 

“Mr. Osborn, I’m sorry,” Carolyn said, her voice becoming distressed. “I tried, I really tried to stop her. I was going to --” 

“Oh, I believe you,” Osborn said, raising his hand to halt her fervent apology, his facial expression one of perverse amusement. “You are blameless for this disruption. Not even Oscorp's finest could have prevented our determined visitor from reaching her destination.” 

_It’s a joke to him! He’s violated my body and mind and stands there smirking like it’s so goddamned funny!_

Osborn gestured to the open door. Taking the cue, Idina stomped in without returning his look and he shut the door behind him. 

“What was _that_ all about?” the courier asked after snapping out of his stunned silence. 

“Ex-girlfriend,” Carolyn stated matter-of-factly as she returned to her chair. 

“Oh.” After looking at the door for an additional moment, he handed her his pen and pad. “Sign here, please.” 

  
Once Idina heard the click signaling the door's closing, her open left hand moved to strike Osborn’s face. Anticipating that action, his right hand captured her wrist before impact. She clenched her fingers into a fist, pushing against Osborn’s grip. She felt his resistance increase and saw his face tense slightly, telling her she was strong enough to make him work to hold her fast. But, he still had nearly a foot and twice her body weight on her, greater mass for the Goblin Formula to energize. The pressure on her wrist gently increased, indicating he had no intention of harming her, but sending the message she could not best him. Her fist unclenched and Osborn gradually relented on the pressure until ultimately releasing her. 

“ _Gentle_ ,” he softly chuckled. “While quite the misnomer, it is another of your intriguing contradictions.” 

She glared at him, continuing to fume. She wanted to start screaming, but worried this close to the door the resulting conversation would carry into the outer office. He motioned her toward his desk and she swiftly strode toward it. Upon reaching his seat, he gestured to her to sit down on the opposite side, but this was answered only by the same angry glare. 

“Please.” 

“I’ll stand.” 

“As you wish. Would you like a drink?” 

_God, I could use a bunch_. “It would wind up in your face.” 

As Osborn sat, he appeared surprised she exhibited such hostility. Of course, he was likely faking it. _The man should have been an actor. He’d be a perennial Oscar winner_. 

“Idina, I have truly missed you. I - ,” but before he could continue, she leaned over the desk, her fists clenched, teeth bared and face almost as red as the spider on the back of Spider-Man’s costume. 

_**“What did you do to me, you fucking bastard?!”**_

Not only was he unfazed by Idina’s fury, he continued to act genuinely unaware of the source of her anger. 

“ _ **To**_ you? My dear Idina, I’ve done nothing _**to**_ you. On the contrary, I believe I have done something of great significance _for_ you. Therefore, the next two words I expect to hear out of your mouth are…” 

“ _ **FUCK YOU**_!” 

“Well, halfway there. I suppose I’ll have to look at it as a glass half full thing, like you did upon finding out _Glee_ wanted you to play Lea Michelle’s _mother_.” 

First her name's Hebrew meaning, then part of her shtick during her Barefoot at the Symphony Tour from a few years back. “Stop trying to be so goddamn clever Norman. I know you’re smart, I know you do your homework, I know you know more about me than probably anyone except my immediate family, so just stop this bullshit!” 

Struggling with her composure and desperate to expend her fury on _something_ , she looked on Osborn’s desk for something to shove off or throw at him, but it was clean, without a single shred of paper, folder, file bin or _anything_ on it. It lacked even a lamp as the desk was its own source of illumination. 

“I can ask Carolyn to bring in a stack of folders and an old Radio Shack computer for you to knock off my desk if you wish. Actually, you could pick up the entire thing and throw it across the room if you desired, but I’d rather you didn’t since I haven't fully depreciated it yet.” 

At the moment, she was breathing heavily, her nostrils flaring. However, even through her incalculable anger, dribs and drabs of logic trickled through, and she realized she was accomplishing nothing other than providing Osborn more opportunities to display his wit. Taking a deep breath, she sat in the chair opposite him. Her teeth remained gritted behind pursed lips, and she continued seething, but at least outwardly, she appeared calmer. 

“Quite a _lot_ has happened since last we talked,” he began in a tone as casual as if over an innocuous dinner date. “The Christmas album, New Year’s Eve, the Super Bowl, the TV pilot deal, more Travolta antics at the Oscars, _If/Then_ closing, your upcoming _world_ tour, which is quite impressive by the way – congratulations, AND a new album in the works.” 

“When did you do this to me, Norman? And why?” 

“As far as _when_ , you should already know, unless you haven't yet sorted through all of your alter ego's memories. That's understandable as it is a considerable amount to process." 

“My alter ego? You mean “Adele"?" 

Osborn tapped one of his desk panels and a two-foot tall, three-dimensional image of the Goblin Queen appeared on the top of his desk. _This is like a sci-fi movie,_ she thought. Alongside her image were words and numbers, which appeared to be costume specifications, but it was the name above the figure that caught Idina’s attention. 

“Oh my god! You called this _Project Adele_? Really? You are one sick sonofabitch!” 

“I couldn’t resist. You have to keep a sense of humor about these things or else you'll go mad. Yes, admittedly I am speaking from experience.” 

She restrained herself from leaping across the desk and putting her hands around his throat. He waited for an acknowledgement of his cleverness, but sensing it would be a futile wait, he continued. 

“Frankly, I wish I had given some thought to a name for your costumed identity and leaked _that_ to the media. “Goblin Queen” would not have been my first choice, but we can thank the _Post_ for that as you were “outed” earlier than I had hoped. There are the obvious _Wicked_ influences with the costume, but I also wanted something that would blend in better with the night, and it’s hard to go wrong with black. I don’t know what I was thinking when _I_ adopted a bright purple tunic and pointed purple boots all those years ago for my own costume. I really must have been crazy. But, now it’s the brand, and I’m stuck with it. 

“I doubted you would have willingly embraced this opportunity. So, my solution to preclude “Idina” from becoming prematurely cognizant was derivative of my own experiences. Several years ago during a very early fight with Spider-Man, I sustained a severe electrical shock, the effect essentially separating Norman Osborn and the Green Goblin into two separate personalities. For a time, neither was aware of the other. I secured the brain scans performed on me from my hospitalizations around that period, one after the Goblin Formula exploded in my face and I acquired the powers, the other after the electrical shock. I compared the two and synthesized a compound to duplicate the brain functions as they existed after the shock. The effect was similar. Each of your identities thought they existed independently of the other.” 

“Is this related to the headaches I’ve been having?” 

“Yes, again, something I also endured." He turned off the projection. "The best analogy I can make is that of an organ transplant, when the host body rejects the transplanted organ. In your case, “Idina,” the host personality, was rejecting the presence of “Adele” and fought to overcome "her," the stress resulting in your headaches. Clearly, “Idina” has won, and fully absorbed “Adele,” who no longer exists as separate personality, but you have her memories. So, the headaches will no longer occur. I sincerely regret the discomfort they caused you. At least you didn’t have the hallucinations that accompanied my experience. Now _that_ was one nasty trip.” 

“That night, I remember Kris telling me about a cab. When she called me “Dee,” I told her “Adele.”” 

“I knew the assimilation would occur eventually, but it happened sooner than planned. Obviously, your emotional distress and the resulting adrenaline surge when you were assaulted triggered your powers and "Adele's" personality.” 

“Were you behind those guys trying to kidnap us? Was that all part of your deranged scheme? You wanted to see what would happen?” 

“ _Absolutely not_! I would _never_ have tolerated such vermin touching you. Idina, I’m a scientist as well as a businessman. I prefer a controlled environment. And I would _never_ have sanctioned such an attack involving an incognizant participant, particularly one of Kristin Chenoweth’s notoriety. How much do you think she comprehends about what has happened?” 

Idina dropped her head as she painfully re-lived her argument with Kristin. "She sure as hell doesn't know anything about _this_. I...freaked out on her when she kept trying to get me to see a doctor." She raised her head again, but didn't look at Osborn. "And she left. Right now she just thinks I'm on some designer steroid and that the stress of the last couple of years is driving me out of my mind. Unfortunately," she faced Osborn again. "That's believeable. But if I didn't know what I was capable of when I wasn't "Adele," how the hell did I get through the day without accidentally ripping doors off their hinges, or faucets off the sink, or breaking other people’s bones?” 

Osborn remained stoic, but his pause suggested the answer. 

“Oh my god. My doctor. He said my headaches were just because of stress…but, oh no…” 

“Yes.” 

“You got to him! What did you do? Brainwash him?” 

“ _I_ didn't do anything. _He_ , on the other hand, had a _very_ troublesome habit of converting expired controlled substances to his personal use rather than properly disposing of them, which is frowned upon by the Bureau of Narcotics Enforcement. Ironically, it wasn't them he feared the most - it was his _wife_ , as he had more than one vice. So, in the interest of self-preservation, he was quite amenable to cooperating. When you were not “Adele,” medication he supplied you masked your powers until "Idina" and "Adele" finally merged, and “Idina” now instinctively has “Adele's” memories and training on controlling her powers. And with that idiot Parker finding you, it’s no surprise you finally came into full realization.” 

_He knows that I know? How? My god - just how much does this bastard -_? 

“You have _really_ got to work on your poker face, pun intended. You had already met him in his civilian identity. He gave it away raging about Gwen and Harry that night at the Gershwin. He's sloppy as hell. Honestly, both Spider-Man and Peter Parker frequent Empire State University and the _Daily Bugle_ , associate with the same people, but no one ever sees them together? Talk to him if you wish, but there’s nothing he can do. He’s a piss poor excuse for a so-called superhero.” 

“Peter Parker is a better man than you could even think of being.” 

“I am not going to even dignify that trite and naïve comment with a response. Now, as for the _why_ …” Osborn then became less smug, less amused, and appeared…grieved. He stood and turned to the floor-to-ceiling windows behind his desk, gazing at the city he knew would one day serve as the capital of his empire. A moment later, he turned his head partially back toward Idina, but did not meet her eyes. 

“When you first returned to _If/Then_ , you were visibly struggling, hobbling about with that cane. If I may be so bold, you were foolish to return so soon after sustaining your injuries. Foolish, but consistent with your maddeningly endearing personality and devotion to those around you. Naturally, someone filmed your return appearance and uploaded it to You Tube. After augmenting and enhancing the video I could see your pain - your eyes watering, teeth gritted, arm and leg shaking because you were barely able to stand for prolonged periods. It…shamed me...to see you like that. I also knew your therapy sessions multiplied, meaning your psychological anguish was increasing. And all because of Miles Warren's grievances against _me_." Osborn's voice became increasingly pained. _This_ he wasn't faking, much to her horror. "After Warren kidnapped you, I…I was concerned he might be torturing you…maybe even… violating you. I knew I could not be held blameless. You had done nothing wrong, yet a gutless madman struck at me through you.” 

“He didn’t touch me," she said weakly, distressed at seeing, rather than only the monster, glimpses of the decent, caring man she once...but, her anger ramped up again. "And yet - that justifies _you_ or one of your goons kidnapping me? Drugging me? _Brainwashing_ me? What the hell else did you do, Norman? Something you didn’t have the balls to do when I was conscious and we were dating?” 

_That_ prompted Osborn to snap back around and look at her, multiple emotions flashing over his face within seconds. The first was surprise, the second genuine hurt, but these quickly coalesced into one of fury.

“I _never_ touched you! Regardless of what you may think of me at this moment, I am _not_ a pillaging barbarian!” 

“How is what you did any different than the Jackal knocking me out and kidnapping me? Or different than any of those crazy people who’ve stalked me?” 

“You can’t be serious! You’re comparing _me_ to that fool Warren? He was going to kill you! I’ve given you your life back! I’ve given you the means of taking control of your own destiny!” 

“ _ **By doing this**_?! You put this – this _shit_ \- into my body, you fucked with my head - without my permission! You don’t _**do**_ that to people, Norman, particularly not to a woman! The Jackal may have kidnapped me, but _you_ were the one who violated me! What made you think you could _**do this**_ to me? And what the fuck makes Miles Warren any more of a gutless madman than the one who threw Gwen Stacy off a bridge? 

"Norman, you may very well be the smartest man I have ever known. But you are also - incredibly _fucking_ **stupid**!” 

Although she couldn't have known, the glare Osborn now gave her was the same demonic one seen by the doctor who informed him his wife was dead all those years ago, the look that heralded the birth of the Green Goblin. It was at times like these she wondered whether he was even human anymore. He raised his arm, pointed, and began to circle toward her. Idina slowly rose from the chair, fists clenched, returning his glare. 

_I may not get out of here alive. But I’m not backing down from this bastard. If he tries something – I’m going to use every drop of whatever he gave me to fight back. He’ll still win, but it’ll cost him. Dearly._

"Don't you fucking **dare** shed a tear for Gwen Stacy until you stand over the grave of _my son_!" He was about to step closer toward her - then saw a look flash over her face breaking her glare. It was gone in an instant, but that look was enough to ratchet down Osborn's mania.

_Walker,_ Idina thought as something she **never** wanted to face crossed her mind. _If I lost Walker, if I had even lost Taye years ago before he - could this happen to me? Could the grief drive me completely mad?_

“Don’t you remember how helpless you felt that night?" Osborn continued, now attempting to appeal to her with reason and empathy. "We never spoke of those events, but I know he must have taunted you about how you were going to die, belittled you, manipulated and augmented your fear for no other reason than satisfying his own perverse whims. What ran through your mind all that time you were tied up, when you couldn’t move, when you couldn't even speak or try to reason with him, when all you could do was wait in silence for death to come for you? When you were standing on that gallows? When the door opened under your feet before Parker snagged you with his webbing? Don’t deny the grief and torment you felt when you were faced with the prospect of never seeing your son again. I know you, Idina. I know you’ve always prided yourself on being a strong, independent woman, how important it is to you to be perceived as such, how important it is to provide an example of one to your son. And there you were, a typical damsel in distress tied to the railroad tracks, Lois Lane waiting for Superman to come save her ass. Deep down, Idina, _that_ must have been more painful than your physical injuries. That must have _killed_ you! Now think back to that night you and Kristin were assaulted. You can’t tell me, when all was said and done, no matter how muddled your brain, that it didn’t feel good to completely dominate and destroy those savages!” 

Idina shook her head, her lips trembling. _Don’t do this, Norman. Don’t start making sense, goddamn you_! 

“And I’m not only talking about defending yourself against so-called “super-villains” or gutter trash. How many run-ins have you had with unbalanced fans? How many times have you literally been chased? I saw that video of the teenage girl screaming and running toward you and your son as you were getting into your car! What if next time it’s not a harmless teenage girl that Joby or Sulli can stop? What if it’s someone genuinely dangerous? What if they have a weapon, wanting to become famous or thinking “God” is telling them to put a bullet in your skull for some perceived sin? What if your son is with you when that happens? You now have the power to protect yourself and your loved ones from anything! The regenerative powers of the Goblin Formula make you capable of surviving almost any attack. ” 

“You’ve turned me into a monster like you!” 

“I haven’t turned you into anything, except someone better than you were before. Surely you're beginning to _understand._ " 

“Understand what? What were you going to have me do, Norman? If you just wanted me to heal faster or boost my self-confidence, or turn me into an MMA fighter, there was no need to brainwash me, dress me up in a fucking costume and teach me to use your gadgets! _What were you going to make me do_? ” 

“ _Nothing_! I was not going to force you to do anything, Idina! I simply wanted you to _feel_ what it was like – to be that powerful. 

“As far as the costume and the “gadgets,” as you call them...when that lab accident changed me all those years ago...what was I supposed to do after that? Play in the NFL? Get a reality TV show? How the hell was I going use such great power sitting in Board meetings and discussing dreadful topics like market share, government contract bids and patent litigation? Do you know how Parker first used _his_ powers? Professional wrestling! “Stupid human tricks” on David Letterman! He might as well have been a fucking circus clown! He’s barely more than that now! 

“But the idea of adopting another identity, a _fearsome_ identity, openly defying society’s constraints, exceeding the boundaries that confine lesser people...when you actually have the ability to _fly_ over the city...to observe from high above…you finally see just how small everyone else is compared to you.” 

As Norman reached her, she prepared for an assault. However, he simply gripped her forearm where she was shot last year after escaping from the Gershwin. 

“Don’t you fucking touch me!” She demanded, unsuccessfully trying to wrench her arm away. 

“You were healing slowly, remember? And didn’t you notice your condition dramatically improve overnight? You no longer feel any residual effects from the bullet wounds do you? If I hadn’t intervened, you would likely have felt that pain for the rest of your life. You should even live and keep your looks longer. You once told me I didn’t look my age. Why do you think that is? You may find your singing voice is stronger than it's ever been! Hell, you might even be able to sing in freezing weather!” He released her after he finished. 

“No! This isn’t natural! It’s not normal! It’s - it's _evil_!” 

“ _Natural_? _Normal_? _Evil_? Idina, "evil" is defined by those whose transcriptions of history survive them - it's not an absolute. And if we confined ourselves to what was “natural,” or “normal,” for the times – we’d still be living in caves, wearing animal skins, grunting and fucking and using rocks to bash in our supper’s skull! Everything humanity has, everything it has accomplished is because people decided they no longer wanted to be at the mercy of nature, or others, that they wanted to seize control of their own destiny! And I can’t tell you how utterly disingenuous it sounds for someone who makes her living in the entertainment industry and spent most of the last several years in California to talk about what’s “natural” and “normal.”” 

“ _Change me back!_ ” 

“I’m not going to do that.” 

“I’ll go to SHIELD. They’ll change me back.” 

“Oh please. Don’t tell me Agent Coulson’s visit in the hospital gave you warm feelings about SHIELD’s pervasive oversight. They know you know too much! Why do you think they talked to you in the first place? To see how much you knew and whether you were going to be a security threat. You can bet your life they're still watching you! You don’t know that if you show up on their doorstep they won't put you under arrest or make you a lab rat. Or even forcibly conscript you!” 

“Why does SHIELD leave you alone knowing what they know about you?” 

“SHIELD and I have a relationship similar to Mutually Assured Destruction, or MAD, if you recall your history of the Cold War.” Osborn looked at Idina for a hint of recognition, and failing that, proceeded to explain. 

“You must have been pre-occupied with adolescence in those days. During the Cold War, before the collapse of the Soviet Union, it was accepted that if either the United States or Soviets attacked the other, there would be massive retaliation and the escalation of hostilities would result in both combatants' mutual annihilation - Armageddon. 

“I collect information about people and the things they do, things they would rather not have revealed to the public or the authorities. And SHIELD has…let’s say…solicited my services on what some might consider – morally and ethically dubious projects.” 

Idina shook her head at this revelation. There was nothing she could say. In for a penny in the super powered world…with no escape. 

“Idina, I hate to run this line, because you’ll think I'm joking - but I am deadly serious. Think of what we can do – _together_! You have power and influence over young people. You command the attention of thousands with your performances! You are at the height of your popularity! That is such a valuable asset and you can use it for so much more than you are presently! We can _own_ this city and so much more. I once told you it could be the capital of an empire. I’m building that empire as we speak and I want you at my side.” 

“What in God’s name are you planning Norman? And I don’t want the city! I don’t want an “empire!”” 

“What the hell _do_ you want, Idina? Do you want “Let It Go” to be the pinnacle of your career? Of your entire _life_? Do you want to be 75 years old still trying to sing that and “Defying Gravity” long after you've decimated your vocal cords? Do you want a pathetic Ramada Inn lounge act with Kristin Chenoweth when you’re both desperate old women clinging to what little fame you have left? How can you be certain you’ll be able to sing past 50 years old, with what you’ve put your voice through over the years? How long will it be before you turn in another pathetic performance like New Year’s Eve?” 

“It was fucking freezing that night!” 

“ _Maybe that wasn’t it_! Your critics and other so-called experts have repeatedly said you have poor technique and have been ruining your voice! That you shredded it during _Wicked_ and it hasn’t been the same since! Or how do you know it won’t be taken away by an incompetent charlatan like what happened to Julie Andrews? Do you think you’ve yet accomplished anything the world will remember in one hundred years? One thousand? 

“And it isn’t only for yourself. Think about Walker. Idina, I can give him a legacy along with my grandson! You can’t tell me you aren't concerned how challenging it will be for him growing up in a society currently as polarized as ours. I can make it so no one ever touches him. I can make him a prince – with power over millions!” Idina noticed Osborn giving her a suggestive look, as if the line should mean something to her, but it didn’t. 

“Norman, I know you’re angry you lost your wife, lost your son. I know things were hard for you growing up. Trust me, I _know_ what it’s like to be in so much pain all you want to do is inflict it on everyone else. But I'm appealing to you, as the man you once were before all of this costumed bullshit happened...." 

“You know _nothing_ about what I feel, about what man I might have been. **Nothing!**

“And whose fault is that, Norman? You didn’t let me in! If there was a chance, any chance at all I would have understood you, forgiven you for the things you’ve done, believed you had or could change, you fucked it up by _lying to me!_ I had to learn the truth about you from a psychopath while standing on a gallows with a noose around my neck! Norman, I will never get over that night – never! It will haunt me for the rest of my life!” 

“Which is why I did this! Think of it as my penance!” Once again, the anger and smugness disappeared, replaced by an emotional plea. “Idina, I haven’t felt this way about a woman in a very long time. You don’t know how I miss not hearing your beautiful voice in person, your charming and ridiculous laugh, to not be with you as you mesmerize an audience! I don’t want to lose that!” 

_That_ did it. She pulled her left hand back into a fist and unleashed it on Osborn with as much force as she could muster. While he remained standing, the impact was enough to turn and stagger him. When he faced her again, she saw she had drawn blood. 

“You lost it that night at the Gershwin, when I found out what you really are.” 

Osborn's hand dabbed at the blood trickling from his mouth. “That felt good - didn’t it?” He could have caught the blow before it struck him. But he _wanted_ her to do this, wanted her to see the impact her power could have. 

“I hate you,” Idina said, fighting off tears, what self control she had disintegrating. 

“I know,” Osborn calmly responded. When he saw in her face recognition of the _If/Then_ reference, he gave her a wry, knowing smile. 

_I’m in over my head. I have to get away from this bastard before he fucks me up so much I won’t know left from right. I need to talk to Peter_. 

Idina quickly turned, bolted out the door and straight to the elevator. She feared she would collapse any moment into a incoherent, sobbing mess and the last place she wanted that to happen was in front of Osborn or even within his building. The only distraction she allowed herself in her haste to depart was saluting Carolyn with one finger upon seeing the woman’s look of disgust following her out of the office. 

_Well, that was…interesting,_ Osborn noted dryly as he closed his doors after watching Idina step onto the elevator and disappear from sight. _Not unexpected. Not entirely unpleasant, either_. 

_But_ , he grimaced as he sat to review the surveillance footage. _I’ll have to make it up to Carolyn again. I probably **should** have told her Idina was coming, like I did the guards downstairs, so she wouldn't have interfered with her, but I knew it would be fun. Still, if Idina _had_ punched her I’d have had to come up with a nicer and more expensive offering this time, not to mention the cost of plastic surgery and orthodontic work. Still well worth it for this footage, though._ He leaned back in his chair, poured a drink and set the replay of Idina’s tirade in the outer office to loop so it would run continuously for as long as it amused him. _Too bad I can’t upload this to the internet. It'd go viral in no time._

  
_**NEXT: Chapter 6 – Ain’t That Some Surprise?**_ Will Peter Parker learn the truth about Idina’s extracurricular activities? And, isn't it about time for something dramatic to happen that will eventually require some superhero action?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I mentioned in the first story, my original template for Emily Osborn was Sutton Foster. But as I developed Emily (more off-page than on), Sutton seemed too brassy, and I envisioned Emily as someone who dealt with Norman in a more unflappable, subtle manner. Rather than directly engage him (as say, Idina, obviously), she would let him rant and rave, and then calmly cut him off at the knees. Looking at her, you would never guess she uniquely possessed the power to bring Norman Osborn to heel. Oddly enough, it's Sutton's former co-star and best friend, Megan McGinnis, who to me better fits that mold, whether she's like that in real life or not.
> 
> The model for the security chief is Al Neri of "Godfather" fame.
> 
> The very first scene written for this story was Idina pounding on Norman’s office door, spewing profanities, demanding he grant her entry. I had no idea at the time _why_ she was there, but that worked itself out in the writing process.
> 
> A problem making the writing of this chapter difficult is that some underlying issues forced themselves to the surface that troubled me. In a comic book context, what Norman did to Idina is perfectly “normal” comic book supervillain behavior using comic book logic. However, in a real world context what he did was horrific, sadistic WWII era Nazi behavior and quite possible depending on perspective, _worse_ than if he had sexually assaulted her. I just hope that in writing what I have always considered to be a comic book (I write because I _really_ can’t draw), I haven’t appeared oblivious to the issues unintentionally raised.


	6. Ain't That Some Surprise?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The dramatic changes Idina has undergone threaten to destroy her entire life. Peter Parker gives her a lesson on how the Marvel Universe came to be and works. And New York City comes under attack. Hey - this is also a superhero story you know!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What if somone really got "super powers"? Would they know how to use them without inadvertantly tearing apart everything and everyone in their way? Would they even _want_ to use them once they realized what having them meant? Would they really put on a costume and fight crime? And what good would such powers do if they didn't know _how_ to "fight crime" in the first place? And where would they get their gear? These were all things I hadn't really thought through once I decided to go in the direction I did. But when I did, I felt that "super powered Idina" had to have a "plausible" (at least comic-book plausible) infrastructure to go with her - and that added lots of words I didn't originally plan on writing. 
> 
> This is where I spin my own theory on the origins of SHIELD and the Marvel Universe, which is based, although deviates somewhat, on Mark Millar’s epic _Marvel Knights Spider-Man_ Saga. This is another example demonstrating that while I like to follow comic book continuity, I pick what I want to use, and make up the rest. 
> 
> Now, I have absolutely NO idea how Idina conducts her business, or how much business is conducted _for_ her by a large self-supporting team. You really think she (or any celebrity) codes her own Facebook and personal website? Read the acknowledgements section of any album to see how many "electricians it takes to screw in a light bulb." I use Heather Reynolds as the “go to” manager when I need Idina to talk business because that was the first name I found in my research and I know she’s been with Idina for several years. It's far more interesting to write using a solitary, human, manager (and one I can take a maternal approach with) than networks of conference calls and email exchanges. That's just - blah.
> 
> There's also a major error in this chapter that I'll discuss in the End Notes, as it gets to the heart of a problem with using Idina as a character in fanfic.

“Let’s break early for lunch, okay?” a troubled Heather Reynolds told the logistics team planning Idina’s upcoming world tour, scheduled to begin May 30 in South Korea (coincidentally also Idina’s 44th birthday). After watching the assembly leave, she turned to her motive for calling the early break, the tour's disengaged star, who typically was alert, focused and participatory. Today however, she sat at the large table bleary eyed and distant. Heather slipped into an adjacent chair and gently placed her hand on one of Idina’s.

“Dee, what is it?” 

“Just tired,” Idina responded weakly, not looking at Heather, giving what little focus she had to the notepad in front of her. In most meetings, scattered and illegible notes, doodles, and to-do items would be on the paper. Today it was as blank as her expression. 

“I don’t believe you. Something is wrong and I really wish you would talk to me about it.” 

“Why do you think that?” 

“Well, for one, that’s the third cup of coffee you’ve let go cold without picking up. You’re behaving like a germaphobe by refusing to touch anyone, and I have _never_ seen you stand around and wait for someone to open a door for you.” 

“I’m not feeling well and I don’t want to make anyone else sick.” 

“Nice try. Dee, I’ve seen you all kinds of sick as well as menstrual, pregnant and post-partum, but today is something else entirely. Walt tells me you were this way during the last recording session. I can’t remember a time you were this out of it that didn't involve painkillers." 

While Idina _was_ distracted, she was anything but disconnected. Her mind ferociously raced with thoughts she could never share with anyone, except one person, and she couldn't reach him. 

_You got me – here’s the truth: Remember that dinner date with a rich businessman you set me up on last year? HA! Funniest damn thing. He’s also the Green Goblin, one of New York’s most notorious supervillains AND Spider-Man's archenemy. Why was I at the Gershwin last year? **Another** supervillain who was pissed off at Norman kidnapped me and was going to kill me. Well, Norman is **also** totally fucking batshit crazy and felt so bad about what happened, rather than flowers and a giant chocolate heart, he made it up to me by turning me into one of those super-powered costumed nuts so I’d heal faster. I’ve spent the last several weeks dressing up, flying around the city and beating up bad guys, but I didn’t know that UNTIL - while out to dinner with Kristin Chenoweth a bunch of dirtbags tried to kidnap us and I beat the shit out of all of them! But because Norman brainwashed me to hide what he did, it was causing me to lose my mind, and I freaked out and scared the hell out of Kris and pissed her off so badly she’ll likely never speak to me again. Then I stormed into Oscorp Tower and punched one of the richest and most powerful men in New York (who’s also a supervillain – did I happen to mention that?) in the face in his own office and oh by the way did I tell you that he is TOTALLY FUCKING BATSHIT CRAZY? Now I’m afraid I’ll break everything I touch and hurt everyone around me, so I sent Walker to my sister’s in Jersey. I just want to fucking crawl back into bed and stay there hoping all of this will turn out to be a horrible nightmare!_

_Other than that though everything is just fine, thanks for asking_. 

“I don’t know how to say this without appearing insensitive,” Heather continued. “We all know what you’ve been through, but I’m really worried. I thought once _If/Then_ closed you’d have more energy and ambition, but it's just the opposite. You were so excited about this tour, and that excitement was infectious. We were all looking forward to it. But the closer we get to kicking it off, the more distant you‘re becoming. What’s going on that you’re not telling me? Is everything all right with Walker? You don’t think you’re going to have problems with him on the tour?” 

“No, Walker’s fine. He’s looking forward to it. He thinks riding a bus all over the country will be an adventure.” 

“You’ve toured before, but this is at another level, with more foreign dates, places you’ve never performed before, and expectations have never been higher. And we’re at crunch time. If there’s any reason, any reason at all you don’t think you can start this tour on schedule, and meet all of these dates, we have to know _**now**_. Actually, we had to know six months ago. You’ve built up a lot of good will over the years, and as I said, everyone knows what you’ve been through, so people are willing to cut you some slack. But, this is the biggest commitment you’ve made, and the largest _we’ve_ ever made to you.” 

“I-I know that, and I appreciate it. Really, I do. Heather, I am so grateful for everything you’ve done for me over the years.” 

“So what’s going on?” 

“I can’t tell you.” 

Heather frowned, and sighed heavily. “I think we can handle the rest without you today.” 

“No, I’d like to stay. I –“ 

“Go home, Dee." Heather's tone morphed from maternal to authoritative, and her look told Idina this was non-negotiable. "That’s _not_ a request. Get your head together and come back when you’re in the game.” 

Idina seldom went gently into that goodnight in an argument. Fighting big and making up big was how she once described the Mentzel clan way. But Heather had been in her corner a long time, standing by her when she wasn’t working, when other managers may have dropped her as a client. If _she_ was this upset with her…Idina pressed her lips tightly together and closed her eyes, trying to staunch the wetworks. She felt like a scolded child sent home early from school, with a parental tribunal awaiting her. She choked out an apology and quickly exited the room before going to pieces. 

  
Idina frantically paced the floor in her apartment, chewing her nails while awaiting her visitor, who was running typically late - at least from her perspective. He finally returned her call, agreeing to come over after she insisted she couldn’t discuss the matter over the phone. 

_Goddammit, where is he? It’s not like HE can get stuck in traffic for Christ’s sake!_

She really hadn’t been marking time, not that it mattered, for the moment she hung up he was already late. After what seemed like an indeterminable period, she heard a knock at the door and rushed to answer it. 

“Where the fuck have you been?” she demanded as she flung it open. 

A confused Peter Parker opened his eyes wide, looked left, right, and behind him as if she had to be yelling at someone else.

“Uh, we hung up less than half an hour ago. I _suppose_ I could have come over in the condition I was in when you called since the fresh air would have felt good on the boys as I swung through the city, but I don't need that showing up on social media.” 

Idina’s anger melted away, her lower lip quivering as “Peter” barely escaped her mouth. Her impulse was to run into his arms and bawl her eyes out. She was desperate not only to talk to someone, but tightly hold onto a person she knew she couldn’t hurt at her current strength, not letting go until shedding every last tear. 

But she didn’t.

Peter took a couple of steps forward into her apartment, looked nervously at the floor and stopped. 

“Uh, can I come in?” he limply asked. 

“You’re already in, dumbass,” she said, wiping her eyes. 

”I’ll take that as a yes,” he said as she shut the door behind him. “Idina – what’s wrong? The number of messages and the tone of your voice -” 

“I stuffed it in my purse when I left the building,” she interrupted, her voice wavering, gasping between words. “Couldn’t bring the whole thing, but I knew you had to see it because you wouldn’t believe me. I don’t even believe it myself.” She grabbed her purse from the couch, pulled out the Goblin Queen mask and handed it to Peter. 

“What the hell are you doing with _this_ , Idina?” he asked as he held it, staring at the opaque lenses. “Why on earth would you be -.” His expression then changed from puzzlement to horror. _”Oh no! **NO!”**_

She said nothing, only nodded through tears.

“You _have_ to be joking. _Please_ tell me you’re joking,” he pleaded, as if that would crack the façade and she would smile and say “gotcha!” 

“Here’s a joke for you!” she yelled, quickly switching from tears to anger. “You sent me crashing into the fucking street you sonofabitch! Do you know how much that hurt?” There was no hint of irony or sarcasm, but genuine grievance. 

“First of all – I thought you were someone else!” Peter responded in kind. “And yeah, I have a REAL damn good idea how it feels! Wanna hear some stories?" Peter stopped himself before he continued escalating the argument. She was certainly entitled to freak out given this discovery, and matching her in volume and fury would not help her cope. 

“Look,” he said gently, guiding her to the couch. “Let’s sit down and go through this step by step. Do you need something to drink?” After she shook her head and sat, he continued. “When did this happen? And how? Unfortunately, I think I already know the “who,”” Peter said, trying to conceal his own rising anger. _Osborn you bastard! How many more lives are you going to destroy? And I thought you loved her!_

“I don’t know and Norman didn’t tell me exactly, but sometime after I returned to _If/Then_. I was hurting and then I wasn’t. I know it happened before that night you showed up at the stage door and spooked the hell out of me. Now, I’m afraid he’ll come back for me or I’ll sleepwalk out of here and wake up finding myself flying over Manhattan!” 

“You’ve already talked to Osborn?” 

“That next morning after you and I – had our confrontation. I went to Oscorp Tower. I tried to call you first, but naturally you weren’t answering your phone.” 

“Idina, you shouldn’t have gone there alone.” 

“Well, you weren’t available and I needed answers. Whatever kind of monster Norman is, I felt sure he wouldn't hurt me in his own office. Besides, this is MY body. He did this to _me_ , because of his relationship with _me_. It had nothing to do with your own feud. It was just as well you weren’t there. You would have probably tried to do something chivalrous and stupid.” 

She proceeded to discuss the events of the last few days including the kidnap attempt that triggered the emergence of her powers and her conversation with Osborn, while becoming increasingly frantic. 

“Peter, I almost hurt Kris after saying all kinds of crazy things! Is it going to make me nuts like him and his son? Is this what _killed_ Harry? _Will it kill me_?” 

“Idina, please - stop. “No” on all counts. Harry died because he took a version of the Goblin Formula he modified on his own. He wanted to be more than his father, but he was nowhere near Norman’s class as a scientist. 

“I _used_ to think Norman's insanity was due to the formula. I never examined a sample of the original concoction that transformed him, but I have no doubt the version he used on _you_ is more than a generation removed from that one. The original Hobgoblin took the formula and remained stone cold sane. After listening to Harry describe Norman's behavior back when Harry was a kid, I’m certain he was a psychopath long before his accident. But giving a madman super powers likely makes him an even greater madman. Idina, if you were going to hurt Kristin, or anyone else, you would have, but you didn’t, and you won’t. It was always still _Idina Menzel_ under that mask. Norman Osborn was _always_ the Green Goblin, long before he got the powers and took on the name. 

“I’ve seen Norman in every emotional state possible since our little dance started. I don’t know how much you remember after you were shot that night, or after you and Norman crashed into Central Park Lake…” 

“Almost nothing. I remember being shot. I remember the water. I remember you carrying me, running through the street to the hospital, and those things you said. Some were actually nice.” 

“I'd been sniffing glue. What I’m trying to say is…after Norman carried you out of the Lake...he said...things...to you, then _put you in my arms_ because he knew I could get you to a hospital faster. His concern for you was greater than his contempt for me. He wouldn't have given you the formula if he thought it would harm you. He probably thought he was doing right by you. Did he frame it that way?” 

“Yes…yes he did. He said he felt guilty about the Jackal kidnapping me to get back at him, and me getting hurt so badly. That he knew how powerless I felt that night, and this is all for my own good, even the idiotic costume part. Something about putting it on makes you feel...he…he’s still in love with me, isn’t he?’ 

“You have to ask?” 

“In the back of my mind I knew he wouldn’t just let me walk away. I knew he wasn’t done with me. Oh my god, what do I do now? All I wanted was to help my foundation. I never thought it would lead to any of this madness.” 

She rose off the couch and stepped away, her back to Peter. After frantically running her fingers through her hair for a moment, she turned and glared at him. 

“Just what is it with _you people_?” almost came out as a hiss, channeling more anger than Peter had ever seen from her. He slowly stood, wondering if his earlier assessment was wrong, wondering if the Goblin Formula really was driving Idina mad. 

“ _Us_ people?” 

“You and Norman. You're both so fucking smart you could have been curing diseases or ending hunger or fixing global warming or something like that. Yet you're fighting each other like schoolyard bullies trying to prove who’s the most macho! It’s pathetic! _All of you super people are pathetic_! You’re so caught up in your petty rivalries and grudge matches, that what happens to the rest of us doesn’t matter! We’re just ants to you, aren’t we – something to be stepped on and squashed if we get in your way? Why don’t you all just get together, take over the world and make the rest of us your slaves? We sure as hell can’t stop you!” 

“Idina, please…” 

“Shut up, Peter! It’s those stupid costumes isn’t it? You and Norman, you can’t deal with the real world, with real responsibilities. Or maybe real life is just too boring, so you invent other identities and wear those fucking costumes!” 

“Says someone who makes her living assuming other identities and wearing costumes.” 

“Oh don’t you even _try_ , don’t you even _dare_ suggest the two are alike!” 

“So, you’re going to tell me none of those roles you’ve played, or voices you’ve done, or when you vamped it up during your concerts, you weren’t expressing a part of yourself you didn’t think you would be allowed to express as just “Idina Menzel”? No, it’s not the same, but the separation between the two is not as great as you’d like to think. 

“But you raise a point. What’s going on between Norman and me… _that’s_ personal, and you…you only know part of it. There _is_ a bigger picture, a reason why we're all at each other’s throats, not just Norman and myself, but everyone in our twisted little fraternity. You’d better sit back down for this one.” When she didn’t immediately respond, but continued standing and fuming, he added softly “Please?” 

Slowly, reluctantly, she sat next to him on the couch, staring at the coffee table to avoid facing him. “That is exactly what one of SHIELD’s functions is,” he began. “To make sure we _don’t_ get together and try to take over the world. They have a file on me and everyone else, good guys, bad guys, and those with powers who don’t use them and are living anonymously with their families in the suburbs trying to live a “normal” life. SHIELD knows how to take us out and would if it thought it needed to. Not all of us know that. I only do because Norman himself told me.” 

“Does that mean they know about - ?” 

“If they don’t, they will.” 

“Norman said he did things for them.” 

“That’s how he made his first fortune. You didn’t think he made all of his money through benevolent scientific research did you?” 

“I did. Until I found out what he really was. What did he do for them?” 

“Norman created some of the first supervillains by supplying them with high tech gadgets and weapons. He wasn’t SHIELD’s only contractor, but he was their best. Oscorp was on the ropes financially, and SHIELD’s offer was his lifeline. It wasn’t SHIELD as it exists today – it was the predecessor organization, run by different people with different objectives. Back when superheroes first appeared, very powerful people became _very_ afraid of them, thinking that once they took care of all of the two-bit hoods and gangsters, they’d start looking for other bad guys – in corporate boardrooms and the halls of Congress. So – to keep superheroes busy with knock down drag outs in the streets – supervillains were created.” 

“That is one of the stupidest fucking things I've ever heard.” 

“Like propping up a tinhorn dictator in some backwater country and taking him out later because we can’t control him anymore? Yeah, stupid like that. Of course, they realized it too late. Once otherwise “normal” criminals who would have been content with a gun and pantyhose over their head saw other, more colorful, higher firepower, options – a larger problem was created than the one it was supposed to fix. By the time saner heads prevailed at SHIELD, the damage was done. 

“Ironically, the sponsors didn't care if their villains usually lost. They just wanted to keep the heroes pre-occupied. The bad guys were always meant to be straw men. After all, you don’t want your trained monkeys to turn on you. 

“But, if you know anything about Norman Osborn – you know he doesn’t like to lose. Seeing half-wits using _his_ tech getting their asses handed to them ate at him. He took it personally and looked for a biological alternative, coming up with the Goblin Formula. Or, he stole it from his business partner, Mendell Stromm, depending on whose story you believe. Talking with the various crazy Osborns over the years is like watching _Rashomon_. I honestly don’t know how much of Norman’s or Harry’s version of events is true and how much is delusion. Anyway, Norman never intended to turn himself into one of his own creations. But, when one of his experiments backfired, and the Formula penetrated his body, and he found out how he felt and realized what he could do - that’s when the Green Goblin the world knows was born. 

“There’s no telling what secrets Norman has learned over the years because there’s no limit to what he’ll do to get them. Norman collects information like other people collect coins or stamps. As much research as his firm has originated, he’s probably stolen as much or more from others. He _is_ brilliant, but that brilliance comes with a madness and a megalomania that makes him sloppy and careless. He hasn’t fooled as many people as he thinks he has. Or maybe he knows that, and that’s where his catalogue of secrets keeps them in line.” 

“So you’re saying SHIELD is as bad as Norman?” 

“No. Nick Fury, the Director of SHIELD, is an arrogant bastard, a skilled liar, an all-around sonofabitch, and I wouldn’t turn my back on him for a second. But, he’s not evil. He really does want to protect the world and its people, but his methods and ethics are too flexible for my liking. And I’m not comfortable with _any_ person having the position and power that he does, knowing what he knows about me. 

“Fury knows exactly what Osborn is and hates him accordingly. He’s not the type to submit to blackmail, so I’m not sure what Norman’s got on them or what he could do to them. There are also tricky jurisdictional issues surrounding any actions SHIELD could take against Norman for things he does on American soil, since SHIELD is actually chartered by the United Nations. So, Norman and SHIELD are at a standoff, like Norman and myself. One going down takes the other with him.” 

“Peter – could _we_ take him down? Between the two of us and what we can do - ?” 

“If we attack him while he’s in his civilian identity, the law will see _us_ as criminals. I did that once and the result was a $5 million bounty on my head! You’ve seen the video that went viral, right? And except for that night at the Gershwin, the Green Goblin has been a no-show for some time. Sure, we could tag team and beat the shit out of him, but what would we do with him after that? Kill him? Dump him off with the police? You know we can’t take him to SHIELD. Besides, are _you_ ready for the world to learn Idina Menzel is the Goblin Queen? Because that’s what would happen. Your life as you know it would be over. What would that do to your son? Your Ex would likely sue for full custody and that would be the least of your problems. What about your sister and parents? Norman may love you, but he won’t let you take him down without a cost. 

“Trust me, I’ve asked myself many times over the years whether I should just get it over with and out myself, so Norman can't hold it over my head anymore and I can finally send him to the hellhole where he belongs. But what about Aunt May? Mary Jane? Everyone I cared about, even the dude with the cart I get coffee from in front of the Bugle, would be a walking target for every nutjob out there, particularly the ones I’ve put behind bars over the years. Not to mention I’m technically a vigilante, which is still illegal and there’s no telling what I could be charged with for times I’ve bent or actually broken the law. I can’t even imagine how many lawsuits would be filed against me by people and businesses whose property I’ve directly or indirectly destroyed during super-powered smackdowns. 

“Anyway, considering the tone of your call, I thought it might be serious, so I brought one of these.” He pulled a small, red, flat, spider-shaped object from a pants pocket. “I almost never give these out. Mary Jane’s the only other person who has one.” 

“What is that thing?” 

“I call it a spider tracer. I created these to act as a homing device for my spider sense. I can track whoever I tag with one if they give me the slip at a particular moment. Pressing on the spider emits a signal my spider sense can follow. Like I said, only Mary Jane and now you have one. Since she’s in California, and obviously out of range, when I get the signal, I’ll know it’s you and I’ll know it’s an emergency. It’ll be better than my cell phone. I can tune that out, but not my spider sense.” 

He held out the tracer, but Idina didn’t immediately reach for it. She looked at it warily, shaking her head. 

“No, Peter. I’m not getting into this thing any deeper. I don’t want any part of your world!” 

“You’ve got super powers and have been flying around the city on a glider while wearing a Goblin costume. The horse is long out of that barn. Take it, Idina.” 

She hesitantly took the tracer. About ten seconds after the handoff, Peter grimaced and his left hand went to his temple. 

“Holy – what did you do – press that thing already? My spider sense is kicking into high gear.” 

“No, I didn’t.” 

“Oh, no…” The building shuddered as multiple explosions could be heard. As they raced onto the balcony, Idina shouted "There!” pointing to the large plume of smoke rising in the air approximately half a mile away. 

“Not only that, but look,” Peter said, gesturing to similar plumes elsewhere. “That’s definitely Mid-Town...Harlem, and over there, Chinatown and the Lower East Side. The city’s under attack.” He hurried back into the apartment and towards the front door, followed by Idina. 

“Peter! Wait! Where are you going? What are you going to do?” 

“What I have to do. What I always do. I’m going to change in the stairwell and leave off the roof. ” 

“What if someone sees you?” 

“My spider sense lets me know if I’m being watched. Besides, people have seen me on countless rooftops for 20 years. Between that and what’s going on, no one will notice.” 

“But where are you going first? There are hits all over the city! You don't know what this is about or how many there are! And you sure as hell can't take care of this by yourself!" 

Her last statement stopped him in his tracks before he reached the door. His head dropped and his right hand nervously rubbed his forehead. He looked up, sighed, and turned to face her. 

The expression on his face made her blood run cold. 

“Idina?” 

  


**NEXT IN CHAPTER 7: “One More Day of Saving the Planet…”** Superheroes gotta do what superheroes gotta do, even the reluctant ones….

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know I could have started the story Peter tells Idina with the whole Captain America super soldier serum thing – BUT – and herein lies the problem with acknowledging the full Marvel Universe. Take the upcoming crises in succeeding chapters, for instance. Even if half the superhero population is “out of town,” the go-to explanation for why the story’s hero in question doesn’t just call the Fantastic Four or Avengers for help, there are still plenty of Reserve Avengers, Young Avengers, Diabetic Avengers, Lactose Intolerant Avengers, not to mention X-Men and loners like Daredevil, available to pick up the slack. Having 50 superheroes show up to save the day after every crisis is hardly fun storytelling, short of being used in a full blown parody.
> 
> And what should be fairly well known, but just in case - “Mentzel” is not a spelling mistake – that’s the real family name. Idina dropped the “t” professionally.
> 
> The "major error" I alluded to earlier is the location of Idina's sister, Cara. In my research, I would have sworn Idina said Cara was a teacher in New Jersey. Maybe she had been at one time, but as the _If/Then_ national tour kicked off, Idina stated her mother and sister had been living in Colorado for several years! But the story was done, and I didn't want to change it, particularly as having Cara in New Jersey solves the "Walker Problem" of having somewhere for him to go, since Taye is based in California and I needed Walker back very quickly at the end of the story.
> 
> I really don't like using Walker, or any of Idina's family for that matter, in a story, because unlike herself and her ex, the adults are private citizens, and Walker is not old enough to consciously choose to become a public figure. He is not Jaden Smith. But to completely exclude him or not reference him would make Idina appear to be an inattentive or indifferent mother, which she is clearly not. I guess that's one reason why it's fan _fiction_. Or maybe why we shouldn't write fiction using real people.


	7. One More Day of Saving the Planet

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> How does Idina respond when the situation demands she use her new abilities? And what sad truth does she learn about the limits of power?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter originally simmered for a long time, changing in direction and tone, becoming darker than planned. I’m still not happy, but feel I did all I could with it. First, the villains will be a bit undercooked, and non-canon. I wanted New York under attack, but not by space aliens (which stretches credibility – unlike _totally real_ super-powered Idina), and I didn't want villains with a religious or racist agenda because that can easily become devisive and I didn't want to tell that kind of story. I tried using an existing Marvel villainous organization, but none of their agendas fit with my story’s worldview, so I had to come up with my own.
> 
> As far as the darker tone, once I started destroying parts of New York, it fast became apparent that to do such a thing, and tell it from a real person's perspective, I had to be honest about the impact of such an event, rather than the typical comic book story where New York gets ravaged but there's little or no collateral damage referenced. To do otherwise, in my opinion, would have been very dishonest storytelling, which explains the chapter you’re about to read.

  
While telepathy was not a power Idina acquired from Norman Osborn, she knew _exactly_ what Peter Parker was going to ask. 

“Oh no! _**OH NO**_! No way! _No fucking way!_ You go call your little Spider Friends or Amazing Friends or whatever the hell they are and leave me out of this!” 

“If they’re in town, they already know and will be doing what they can. But if not, I’m going to need help. And by the way, it’s not like we call each other and say, “hey, let’s have a team-up.”” 

“If SHIELD knows everything like you say they do they can handle it.” 

“I told you SHIELD’s authority is more limited than you would think. SHIELD’s not allowed to deal with _domestic_ problems of UN member countries. _If_ it's determined this isn't from a domestic source, the Governor of New York will petition the President of the United States to request SHIELD assistance. Unless it’s those Hydra assholes and then SHIELD has free reign.” 

“I don’t believe this! You people have a fucking _bureaucracy_?” 

“Impervious to the greatest of superpowers.” 

“Peter, I’ve got a five year old boy who needs me! I can’t play superhero and take the chance of something happening to me. You don’t understand. _You_ don’t have children.” 

“Do you hear that?” Peter asked, referencing the screaming sirens of police cars and fire trucks. “You’re right, I don’t have any children – but a lot of people in those cars and trucks do. There’s mothers and fathers, husbands and wives rushing into god-knows-what without the certainty they’ll be going home tonight and they _don’t_ have super powers. Odds are some of them won’t see their families again, _especially_ if people like us stand by and do nothing.” 

“Oh my god. Do you people have a book of clichés you pull out when you want to justify your actions? That’s _their job_ , not their hobby, not something they do for shits and grins! And let's get one fucking thing straight, Peter! There is **no** _people like us_! I’m not one of you no matter what that bastard Osborn did to me! I’m almost 44 years old, I’m a single parent, I have a career, and I have a fucking _life_! I don't want anything to do with your superhero bullshit!” 

“You say “you people” a lot. Are you sure you don’t watch Fox News? Look, I didn’t ask for it either – but got it anyway when I was 15 years old! You think I was ready for it then? And my uncle died because I thought “someone else could handle the problem.”” 

Idina threw up her hands, _almost_ speaking her mind, but fortunately common sense kicked in before her mouth. She knew she could call Peter out on most of his self-pity, but she hadn’t earned the right to call him out on _this_. It was a line probably only Mary Jane Watson ever dared cross. _Goddammit, he’s playing the murdered uncle card again. When will he stop martyring himself? Hasn’t what he’s done all these years earned him the right to forgive himself?_

“I’m not experienced or trained for something like this!” she blurted out instead, a less effective comeback, but one that wouldn’t hurt and alienate Peter. 

“You have more experience and training at this point than _I_ did when I first donned _my_ costume.” 

“But - you know who gave me these powers! It wasn’t the fucking tooth fairy!” 

“So spit in his face by working with _me_ , of all people, and do something good with them! Look, we don’t know what this is about yet, Idina. But who’s to say it’ll stop here with New York City? Your son and other members of your family aren’t that far away.” 

**_SHIT!_** She knew that was coming, but loathe as she was to admit it, the thought occurred to her before Peter expressed it. Memories of 9/11 flooded her mind. That night she was to debut as Amneris in _Aida. _She and Taye were just waking up that morning in their Upper West Side apartment when the planes hit the Twin Towers, and for the next two days they were transfixed in front of the television watching the drama and its aftermath. People who weren’t cops or firemen or super-powered rushed to the danger zone, volunteering for any number of tasks such as searching for survivors, feeding rescuers, or providing solace to grieving relatives. But living on the Upper West Side, they were distant, unaffected...and uninvolved. Not so unaffected was her friend and _If/Then_ co-star LaChanze, eight months pregnant with her second child that day. LaChanze's husband, Calvin Gooding, a stock trader at Cantor Fitzgerald, died in the Towers. Walker made a legitimate excuse for sitting by and letting others rush in, but that raised another possibility. _If_ the time ever came that she had to tell Walker the truth about the Goblin Queen, he might ask what she did today, and the last answer she wanted to give was "I watched it on TV.”' if there was a chance her involvement could save at least one person from enduring the pain, grief, and agony LaChanze did... __

____

_This will be the STUPIDEST fucking thing I have ever done. And, considering my history, that says a lot_. 

“I hate you,” she murmured. 

“I know,” Peter replied, smirking, likely believing he was the only one to use that _If/Then_ related joke. She opted not to tell him who else was amused by his own cleverness in using that line. 

“Let’s do this before I change my mind and kick your ass,” she scowled. 

  


She had been on roller coasters before, and thanks to Norman Osborn, had flown a bat-shaped hunk of metal through the New York skies. But web slinging with Spider-Man was its own unique vomit inducing thrill ride. Wearing the Goblin Queen mask to conceal her face, her arms circled Spider-Man’s chest and each leg was wrapped around one of his as he swung over and in between buildings, zipping and slicing through the air up, down, and sideways. It was dizzying enough in her present state. How the hell could any normal person endure this without scattering their stomach contents throughout the city?

They dropped from the air, landing at the address she provided. She walked to the door, and after checking the surroundings, pulled her mask up over her eyes. Her retinas were scanned, and after an audible click, they walked through the door and into a small interior room. Pulling the mask off, she approached the nearby elevator doors and waited. A feminine voice dryly stated, “Retina scan and facial recognition enabled. Identity confirmed. Welcome back, Adele.” The elevator doors opened. 

“Surprised Norman didn’t use John Travolta’s voice for that one,” Spider-Man said as they entered the elevator. 

“You _do_ realize I’ve got weapons in there don’t you?” 

“And a frightening realization it is," he said as the doors shut. 

Upon reaching the penthouse floor “safe house,” Spider-Man noted the relative luxury compared to other Goblin safe houses. 

“Damn, Girl Goblins do it in style.” 

“Haven’t you been in one of these before?” 

“Yeah, but those were high tech man caves. This is a luxury apartment. Is that a TV?” He pointed to a large flat screen on a wall. 

"Yeah...AND my computer monitor as well. I also have a police scanner, video survelliance, and who knows what the hell else I can eavesdrop on. "Adele" thought it was cool - but frankly, it scares the fuck out of "Idina" - what Osborn can do and what he probably knows." 

"There's no telling what pies that madman has his fingers in. I want to check the news while you're changing...see if they know anything yet." 

"I'll be out in a minute." Idina pointed to a remote on a nearby nightstand and darted into the costume room. _I should be shitting my pants, but this feels uncomfortably familiar now_ , she thought, shuddering at the ease in which she transformed into the Goblin Queen, as if it were simply for another role on stage. The first layer was a full body compression unitard that regulated the temperature within the costume. The top and pants of the actual costume were separates, comprised of a lightweight material Osborn told "Adele" was fire and bullet resistant. She noted he didn’t say fire or bullet - _proof_. 

Upon changing into everything but the mask, she walked out and joined Spider-Man in watching CNN. At the moment, it was only anchor Brooke Baldwin trying to relay as much information as possible as she balanced that while listening to updates in her earpiece. A ticker across the bottom of the screen announced that New York City suffered multiple strikes of a undetermined nature and more information was forthcoming. 

"What's happening? Is it an invasion?" 

"No one knows yet. Nothing's getting out of Manhattan - all of the local stations and local cable affiliates are down. Power's off on most of the island and there's not even cell phone service. Probably some kind of electromagnetic pulse. Of course, it's not surprising things are still working here in Norman's little slice of paradise. Reports are coming in from the boroughs, however, videos and pictures of plumes of smoke, so it seems limited to Manhattan. At least I won't have to worry about Aunt May. Let's go glider shopping." 

She led Spider-Man to the weapons room, gesturing to the wall where several gliders were individually racked. A monitor below each provided detail on the glider's weight, capabilities, and weapons payload. 

“What should I take? Do you think we'll be going into a fight where I'll need a lot of...extra stuff?” she asked Spider-Man as casually if she had asked if her shoes went with her dress. 

“I wish I could tell you for certain. A lot depends on who's behind it, whether they went down in flames with their targets, or are just providing a distraction. If this is like 9/11, although on a larger scale, my gut tells me this will be a rescue operation rather than a firefight, so take a glider with minimal artillery that emphasizes speed and maneuverability. If it looks like we need more - well, with the speed that thing's capable of, getting back here in a hurry won't be a problem. Put some pumpkin bombs and razor bats in your purse, because you never know.” 

“Norman called it a ‘satchel,’” she responded as she collected the items and placed them in the bag she slung over her shoulder. After studying the monitors, she selected a glider, pulled it off the wall, and carried it out to the primary room. 

“A purse by any other name is still a purse. At least yours is a stylish emerald color rather than that tacky bright purple man purse he carries. He clearly had no idea the rumors that would make the rounds at the local supervillains pub.” 

“The Goblin mask comes with a headset,” Idina said, handing Spider-Man a small earpiece and microphone. “Put this in your ear under your mask. It’s already synched up with mine. We’ll be able to talk to each other without screaming.” 

“Seems similar to one an electronics whiz friend of mine synched to my cell phone so I could take calls from Aunt May or Mary Jane while I was Spider-Man. Now, when we’re out there we can’t address each other by our civilian names or make any other personal references. We have to assume the authorities are monitoring all communications, if there are any, not to mention the bad guys if they're still out there.” 

“Where to first?” she asked, pulling her mask down over her face. 

“Times Square. That's where the most smoke is, indicating multiple or heavier strikes than other areas. Not that the others aren’t important, but Times Square is likely the place with the largest number of people needing help and the most chaos. After that if need be, we can split up and take care of the rest of Manhattan. Mind if I hitch a ride on the way out?” 

Idina inserted her boots into the glider’s stirrups as Spider-Man stepped behind her. After a tap on a small panel attached to her belt, a nearby wall separated, revealing a city beckoning for their attention. The glider rose two feet into the air before the gyros kicked in and sent it screaming outside, the wall closing behind them. 

“Not a bad start, Elphie!” 

“Stop calling me Elphie. Hey, wait a minute! With all this shit going down - how do we know the cops or military won’t shoot at _us_?” 

“We don’t!” Spider-Man exclaimed as he jumped off the glider and started swinging away. 

“ _You’re a dick - **you know that!!??**_ ” she screamed as the glider followed him. Screaming was unnecessary since they could talk to each other in normal tones through the earpieces, but she felt he deserved a rattled skull. 

  


She briefly felt a moment of exhilaration, borne of the ability to fly within one's own power, as the glider followed the webslinger up Seventh, aka "Fashion" Avenue, past Macy's and Madison Square Garden. She felt suprisingly confident on the glider, realizing she had "Adele" to thank for that confidence. But while "Idina's" stomach was eating a hole through its lining, her attention was drawn to the pandemonium and panic on the streets beneath her. The streets were clogged with immovable masses of wrecked vehicles and only a handful of the multitude of police cars, fire trucks and ambulances on the roads were able to inch toward their destinations, usually on the sidewalks. Swarms of people were moving in different directions, some fleeing the sites of destruction, others rushing toward them either out of morbid curiosity or a desire to help. 

She still couldn’t believe she let Peter talk her into this. 

Spider-Man rattled off each locations from which he observed plumes of smoke rising. “I see at least one each in SoHo, Chelsea, Chinatown, Greenwich Village, Hell’s Kitchen, East Harlem…” 

“Good lord, Times Square,” she gasped as several individual plumes coagulated into one giant cloud over Manhattan's heart. 

“The Center of the Universe,” as it was often called, Times Square was two large intersecting triangles (consisting of smaller triangles), bounded by Broadway and 7th Avenue, and 42nd to 47th Streets. Two Jumbotron-lined buildings, designated as One Times Square and Two Times Square, stood as opposing pillars five streets apart. One Times Square sat atop a Walgreens, the 42nd Street Police Substation next to it. Everything in between was an unrelenting, 24-hour bombardment of giant LED ads for fashion stores, TV shows, movies, electronics, anything that could be peddled to a populace addicted to conspicuous consumption. All, however, were now eerily dark. Five blocks of Broadway (the street) north of 42nd had been closed to traffic by the city to create a permanent pedestrian plaza. Curiously, one plume was disconnected from the others, originating from 42d between 7th and 8th Avenues. 

_My god, the New Amsterdam Theatre. If this had been during showtime…Aladdin sells out every night...almost 2,000 people would have been in there._ The New Amsterdam, an historic theater leased and rehabbed by Disney, was a narrow building with a unique marquee topped by a clock. The marquee had collapsed and covered eastbound 42nd. Across four lanes of now halted traffic, were the Lyric Theatre, where _Wicked_ relocated after the Gershwin's destruction last year, and the American Airlines Theatre, where Kristin would have normally performed tonight in _On the Twentieth Century_. 

"You’d better prepare yourself for this…”. Spider-Man's voice ominously cautioned. 

His warning was too late, but its lack of timeliness was irrelevant. Nothing could have prepared her for what she saw. 

Large portions of the 49-story New York Marriott Marquis hotel were now skeletonized with its entrails in the form of concrete and furniture piled high on Broadway and spilling into the pedestrian plaza, creating walls of debris closing off 45th & 46th Streets. The theaters surrounding the Marquis, including the Minskoff, where _The Lion King_ resided for the last several years, the Rodgers, and the Imperial, took heavy collateral damage. Strewn across the autos clogging 7th Avenue were the contents of the ground floor stores of the 44-story Bertlesmann Building, including the Disney Store, Forever 21, Polo, and Sunglass Hut. While several floors of the Bertlesman were exposed, it was not as decimated as the Marquis. Debris and wrecked cars walled off the plaza as if it were a dam, restraining the surrounding sea of flashing red lights from ambulances, fire trucks and police cars unable to break through the debris fields. Several first responders and others were attempting to scale the debris to reach the people within the plaza, while others attempted to aid people trapped within the cars on the surrounding streets. The plaza was smoke filled and occupied by hundreds of people, some noticing the costumed pair overhead and motioning them to come down. Others were slowly rising to their feet while the remainder were still. Some would eventually get up – others, perhaps never. The collective dust from the carnage covered the plaza and beyond like layers of volcanic ash. 

“The first thing we'll do is go to the top of Two Times Square and get an overview of the situation.” 

Spider-Man launched himself from a web line attached to the remains of the Marquis and landed near the top of Two Times Square, primarily a Renaissance Hotel atop an Olive Garden restaurant. The side facing the plaza was comprised of several electronic billboards, also dark. He perched himself atop the highest billboard, while Idina sidled up next to him with the glider. 

“Who could have done this?” she asked. “Al-Qaeda? ISIS?” 

“I don’t know. This was a well-coordinated attack, but I wouldn’t be too quick to blame foreign fundamentalists. We’ve got plenty of home grown loonies like those at Oklahoma City. Not to mention Hydra, AIM…there’s a whole world of crazies out there, Elphie…and some even some beyond this one. Look, I know you don’t like anyone, especially me, telling you what to do, but I really need you to follow my lead and just do what I ask.” 

“I’m not stupid, Spider-Man and I’m not a rebellious child,” she whispered angrily, perhaps more angrily than she should have, with her voice wavering. How could Peter think she had so little sense her first impulse in this catastrophe would be to argue with him? But she knew it was the perpetrators with whom she was truly angry. “This is your world, Spider-Man,” she continued softly. “What do you want me to do?” 

“I’m sorry," and after a pause, "I know you'll probably want to start digging people out, particularly as you’re going to hear a lot of cries for help. But every street surrounding the area is locked up with debris and accidents, so we _have_ to clear ways into the plaza so emergency vehicles can get in here and transport the injured. You and I can plow the road faster than anyone else and get it done before the city gets its machinery warmed up. 

“See the ambulances just outside of 7th  & 45th?” he asked, pointing to that corner of the plaza. “We’ll go there first and clear the debris and wrecked cars. If people are trapped inside some of the cars, get them out and give them to one of the responders. Once we clear that first path, we’ll do it again on the opposite corner so vehicles can get into the plaza from both the north and south. Then, well, we’ll do whatever else needs done. People are likely trapped on the upper floors of these buildings and it’s going to be hell for the firemen to get them, but we’ll play that by ear. Clear as mud?” 

“Wait a minute. You expect me to pick up cars?” she asked, forgetting herself for a moment. “Oh yeah, I can do that now, can’t I?” she asked nervously. 

“I don’t know how to prepare you for this. Just…do your best and keep it together. We can only do so much, and we have to make choices. There'll be a lot of eyes on us, so we have to stay calm, or fake it convincingly. All right, here we go.” He ran halfway down the building, jumped off, landed briefly on the Father Duffy statue while yelling "Sorry, Father, no offense!" flipped, and repeated the action off the George M. Cohen statue, propelling him over the debris field and into the plaza. He ran across the plaza, and leaped over the opposite side debris field on 7th and 45th. The glider slowly descended as she followed him, allowing herself a moment of incredulity at his acrobatic display. She wondered how much of his talk was for her benefit, and how much was for his own. She felt she understood him well enough by now to know that regardless how much good he accomplished, he would still be tormented about the things he _couldn't_ do. 

After landing and stepping off the glider, she activated the cloak and directed it to hover 50 feet in the air, so it wouldn’t be seen and out of reach of the curious and larcenous until she signaled for it again. While the glider was in hover mode the cloak didn't drain as much energy from the fuel cells as when in flight. She pulled a transparent, collapsible filter from one of her belt compartments and placed it over her nose and mouth to avoid inhaling any dust. But now there was something else she wished could be filtered: a cacophony of sounds - crying, coughing, screaming, pleas for help. 

“I shouldn’t have brought you here," Spider-Man sadly noted. "I’ve been at this so long, become so jaded, I forgot the impact it could have on someone else.” By now his costume's bright red and blue colors were muted as more dust by the second accumulated on him. 

“No, Spider-Man,” her own voice badly quivering. “It was the right thing to do. I-I want to help." For a moment, she believed she could feel his own confidence flagging as his voice trailed off, but he quickly recovered when he saw a police officer approach him, hand outstreached. 

“Spider-Man! The Chief’s no friend of yours, but _I’m_ sure glad to see you.” 

“Nice to have a fan among New York’s Finest," Spider-Man replied, taking the hand of the female, African-American officer. "This is – “ 

“Oh, I know who _this_ is,” she replied, reaching out and shaking Idina's hand. “My daughters are big fans. It’s a shame I’ll have to tell them I met the Goblin Queen under these circumstances. She’s on our side, right?” 

Spider-Man quickly glanced at her, suggesting a patented smart-ass comment, perhaps about her following him home from the playground or something like that, was coming. But he turned back to the officer and said “Yes. Yes she is. She’s one of the good guys, and she’s here to do whatever she can do to help. What happened?“ 

“Drones, Spider-Man. Massive numbers of drones. They just appeared all over the city and starting crashing into buildings. I don’t know how many hit the Bertlesmann, but it was only a fraction of what hit the Marriott. God only knows what those things were packing.” 

“Do we know where they came from?” 

“Not yet.” 

Spider-Man explained to the officer and the others that had gathered, what he and Idina would be doing, finishing by saying “Gentlemen, and Gentleladies, start your engines. Elphie...” 

Once underway, she realized she had to occassionally consider the situation's irony and absurdity, or else the grim reality, and the cries surrounding her, would break her and drop her to her knees sobbing. _A week ago my biggest worries were packing and getting ready for my tour. Now I’m next to Spider-Man in a Halloween costume, picking up and tossing large chunks of concrete and metal as if they were pebbles, and moving cars and trucks around as easily as if they were Walker’s Hot Wheels. All in the middle of this - this horror_. She was steeling herself for the eventuality of finding bodies – and for the young age of some of them. 

Although focused on her tasks, she couldn’t help but occasionally glimpse Peter at work. She observed how calm he remained amongst crowds of frantic people, how he took control of any situation confronting him, and while toning down his trademark wit, still used humor to try to put people at ease. And that was in addition to the displays of physical strength. She realized the Spider-Man she saw at the Gershwin last year was only a shell of the man. She had seen him in action only after he had been torn up by flying monkeys, rocked by explosions and debris, and beaten by both the Jackal and Norman. 

He truly was the _Amazing_ Spider-Man. 

Maybe when this was all over she might even tell him that. 

They needed only a fraction of the time it would have taken several pieces of heavy equipment to arrive and clear two paths into the pedestrian plaza, and now a steady stream of emergency vehicles entered and exited the site. During a brief respite, she noticed a group of young girls jumping up and down waving at her screaming, “It’s her! It’s her!” and taking numerous cell phone snapshots. 

“What the fuck -?” she muttered while standing next to Spider-Man. “All that’s going on and they’re taking pictures? Of _me_? Like it's the fucking stage door?” 

"Calm down. Don't let it bother you. It's the first time you’ve been seen up close and personal, and in daylight. Everyone needs a little distraction at the moment - and in that getup – you are most certainly a distraction.” 

“Just what the fuck do you mean by – “ 

“No time – a lot of people are probably trapped in the Marquis and Bertlesman. The Bertlesman might hold out, but I'm betting the Marquis is structurally compromised and what's left will literally start falling apart soon. Now that emergency vehicles can clear out the plaza, we’ve got to get the Marquis evacuated. Our particular talents and tech are perfectly suited for this and we can get everyone clear in a hell of a lot less time than anyone else. Start by getting the people who are gathering on the rooftops down while I go inside and use my spider sense to locate others who are still inside. Those I find I'll bring to the roof. The medical helicopters will take the seriously wounded out, they're equipped to handle them - but you can take down those who aren't injured. And _be careful_. Capeesh?” 

“Whatever you say, _**Boss**_!” she said as she retrieved the glider from its cloaked position. 

“Why do I get the feeling you said that with more than a little bit of sarcasm and spite?” 

“Oh I don’t know, why _do_ you?” she replied with all of that - but not without a hint of a smile.

  


The Marriott Marquis had been an austere 2,000-room hotel comprised of two parallel slabs lined with rooms and a center square that included the elevator banks, the Marquis Theater, and a revolving restaurant. People had gathered on the rooftops awaiting rescue. When they saw her approaching, almost in unison they began waving and yelling at her. 

_Have to be careful,_ she thought to herself as she gently glided down toward the roof on the north wall. _If they’re too panicked or scared, they could jump me and then we’d all be in trouble_. As she drew closer she steeled herself for the sight. Dozens of people, all covered in dust and debris, some bloodied, many crying - gave the rooftop the appearance of a refugee camp. _This is horrific. How am I going to keep it together? What would a real superhero say at a moment like this? What would Peter say? Something profound? Shit, I can't think of anything profound. "It was the best of times - it was the worst of times?" "These are the times that try men's souls?"_

“Let's do this so none of us get killed, OK?" she shouted. 

_Well, **that** sucked. Lamest superhero ever._

Fortunately, most of the adults appeared outwardly calm, although many of the children were frantic. In an ideal situation, she would take all of them down first, and adults afterwards, but she knew there could be no separating children from their mothers, particularly on a 49 story flight down to the street.

"I can only take those who _aren't_ seriously injured. The medical helicopters will have to get them. Spider-Man will be bringing more people to the rooftop. I want to take mothers and their children first - one family at a time. Please stay calm - Spider-Man and I and the helicopters **will** get all of you off this roof.” 

As the pain-staking transportation of people from the roof to the street commenced, she deliberately avoided looking at the rows of rectangles accumulating in the plaza. 

  


She had to admit, it was hard _not_ to feel good about some of this - the tight, tearful hugs and expressions of gratitude from people she helped, families of those aided, responders who needed assistance. Of course, the children who looked in wide-eyed amazement at the green masked woman with the beautiful smile touched and troubled her the most. She begged off numerous requests for pictures, and constantly stifled her own tears, determined not to let the children see her cry. As Spider-Man said earlier, they had to appear strong. 

After the Marriott and Bertlesman were cleared, and a trip back to the safehouse to replenish the glider's fuel cells, she landed and dismounted the glider in the plaza near where Spider-Man stood waiting for her. His body language suggested he was seriously troubled. He quietly suggested: 

“Elphie, if you would like to go home now, it’s alright.” 

“What? No, I’m staying here. There’s still a lot of work to be done.” 

“Then maybe you should help out somewhere else, like 42nd around the New Amsterdam, or one of the other locations that were hit. I'm sure the police can direct you to those areas in most need of help.” 

“You're trying to get rid of me? You don’t think I can take what comes next, do you?” 

Spider-Man sighed loudly, rubbing the back of his head. _Idina, why do you have to make everything so hard?_ "No, frankly I don’t think you can.” _Well, if I'm going to throw gas on the fire, might as well make it a tanker truck full._

“Oh, spare me your fucking macho bullshit! You want put a skirt on me and escort my poor little fragile female ass out of here?" 

“That’s not it!" Spider-Man snapped, pointing a finger at her. "I’ve done this many times – you haven’t! You’ve done enough and _nothing_ will be said if you pack it in now.” 

“I am NOT leaving, Spider-Man,” she said slowly and firmly, gritting her teeth. “If you want me to leave, you'll have to knock me out, or drag my ass out of here, and trust me, you _don’t_ want that scene! I watched 9/11 on TV, sitting in my comfortable Upper West Side apartment in my husband's arms while other women were wondering if their husbands were even still alive. I felt so totally fucking spoiled and useless, but really, what could I do? But now...power and responsibility, right Spider-Man? You say a lot of stupid shit, but you got that one right.” 

“And it wasn't even my line," Spider-Man sighed. "So why the hell were you giving me such a hard time back at the..." He stopped, turned away, and grumbled. "All right. Prepare yourself. From here on out, there won't be a lot of happy endings.” 

She followed Spider-Man to a portion of the Marquis that had crumbled and watched rescue workers clearing debris. Suddenly, a small shoe appeared after a desk was moved aside, no more than a toddler’s size 10-11. She gasped and felt a lump in her throat, as not far away was the leg and foot to which the shoe had been attached. Idina turned and staggered away, not getting 20 feet before bending over and vomiting. 

Spider-Man walked to her, reaching for her shoulder. 

“ _Get away from me! **Now!**_ ” she yelled, as if she had her own radar sense that felt him approaching. He stopped. 

After her voice drew others' attentions, Spider-Man blocked her from the view of as many as possible and directed the curious to look elsewhere. For the next minute he endured the tortured, strangled sobs only he could hear as they resonated through his head due to the earpieces connecting them. Suddenly, she rose, turned and marched past him to where she stood moments earlier, intending to pick up where she left off as if nothing within the last minute had occurred. Spider-Man did likewise. 

  


Several portable metal chairs were scattered around the plaza and later in the evening, as activity became less frantic, a weary Idina righted one and dropped into it, staring at the object in her hands. The explosions in the Disney Store had expelled toys and clothes throughout the plaza. Almost as a cruel joke, among the blackened and broken toys, was a twelve-inch singing Elsa doll, the clothes tattered, her hair and face blackened by the ash and dust. She didn’t notice Spider-Man walk over, set up another chair, and sit down until he nudged her, wordlessly handing over a water bottle, which she readily accepted. After carefully placing the Elsa doll into her satchel, she pulled up her mask and twisted off the top of the bottle. 

“Osborn created those masks with an open mouth. Why'd you pull it up?” 

“I'm sick of hearing the Goblin Queen's voice coming out of my mouth. I can’t imagine what my face and hair will look like when I finally pull this thing off. I’m still sweating even though the costume regulates temperature, but at least I’m not the sopping, smelly mess you are. If I hadn’t become used to being next to my Ex after his workouts I’d tell you to go sit somewhere else.” 

“Big turn-on, huh?” 

“I’d rather take a wet dog to bed.” 

“Well, a demented, evil genius didn’t design _my_ costume like he did yours.” 

“Not an _evil_ genius, at least.” 

“You still have your rapier-like wit.” 

“I don’t have a choice. You know what that’s like, don’t you?” 

“Yeah, yeah I do. You don’t want to talk too loudly. Without the modulator pressed against your throat by the mask, people might recognize that famous voice.” After several moments of uncomfortable silence, Spider-Man spoke again.

“I’m sorry.” 

“For what?” 

“For asking you to come. It wasn’t fair to you. Like you said, you have the powers, but not the experience.” 

“You needed me.” 

“The work would still have gotten done. But, yeah, you being here made it go faster. The city, National Guard and Federal Government could deploy more resources to the other areas and secure them. I guess they figured Times Square was in good hands with two super powered first responders. Lives were probably saved because of that.” 

“Then that’s what counts, isn’t it?” 

“I guess so.” 

“Spider-Man, don’t get me wrong. I’m not _happy_ I came. I don’t know how I’m holding it together. The minute I leave here and get away from the cameras I’m going to cry for three days straight, assuming I don’t get on this glider and fly it to Jersey to see my son. I can’t imagine…if he were one of those…but I wanted to make a difference. I wanted to matter. Please remember that regardless of what I will probably say later when the reality of it all finally sets in.” 

When Spider-Man didn’t respond, she re-iterated “Will you remember - _please_?” 

"I’ll try," came after a heavy sigh. “I talked to one of the officers,” he continued. “He said the other areas are under control. The strikes were more concentrated, apparently not intended to cause the broad range of destruction that occurred here. He was going to show me a schematic in a bit. I'm not sure there’s much else we can do tonight.” 

“”Under control” isn’t the same thing as “no casualties,” is it?” 

“We had to make a choice, Elphie. We were needed here the most. But, no. It doesn’t mean that.” 

“Spider-Man!” a police officer’s voice rang out as he motioned to the wall-crawler, who responded with a more forceful wave telling the officer to come to them. 

“I want you to hear this, too. Mask down. Go ahead,” he told the officer, who showed Spider-Man a schematic of Manhattan Island on a tablet. 

“Looks like it’s confined to Manhattan, no hits in the other boroughs.” 

“Hmm,” Spider-Man muttered, studying the tablet. “Odd. These were clearly not random strikes, but," turning to Idina, "Do you notice that other than Times Square, some obvious targets _weren’t_ hit?” 

“Yeah,” Idina noted after a moment’s thought. “One World Trade Center, the Empire State Building, lots of things. What was in the Village and Harlem and Chinatown and SoHo and the other places worth hitting more than those?” 

“Folks on the ground are saying it’s mostly condos,” the officer replied. 

“Condos?” Idina asked, incredulously. “Condos? That doesn’t make any sense. Why would terrorists hit a bunch of condos? How does that explain Times Square? Or the New Amsterdam?” 

“Interesting,” Spider-Man continued. “Thanks,” he said, handing the tablet back to the officer who walked away. Although his face was fully masked, she still saw the gears moving in his head. It was getting frightening how well she could read him. 

“You have a theory you want to share with the rest of the class?” she asked. 

“Working on one. I recognize those places hit. They're new, upscale condominiums that have replaced some of the older, cheaper housing over the years.” 

“How do you know that off the top of your head? You don’t have a real estate broker’s license do you?” 

“Elphie, I was swinging from one side of Manhattan Island to the other well before your green ass started defying gravity. I’m pretty familiar with everything going on in this city and I’ve seen these things go up from the time they were just holes in the ground." 

“Stop calling me Elphie. But why hit something as big as Times Square then? On 9/11, they only went after big targets. Wouldn’t you just do one or the other?” 

“Spider-Man! There was a gas main explosion with a fire up in East Harlem around 125th,” the same officer who had brought them the tablet ran up and informed him. “Probably an after effect of the drone attack. The truck’s trying to get there, but…I thought you’d want to know.” 

“We were just sitting on our asses anyway. You up for another round, Broom Hilda?” 

Idina just rolled her eyes. She was too tired to even contemplate a witty comeback. 

  


East Harlem was a micrcosm of New York City's housing disparity, with one census tract populated by multi-million dollar homes next to another with people earning less than $20,000 a year, the gap between rich and poor vividly illustrated in just a few square blocks. Upon arrival, Spider-Man and Idina saw the mass of crumbled brick, twisted metal, splintered wood and bits of residents’ belongings that had once been part of a neighborhood. A crowd gathering across the street was watching another building continue to burn. Spider-Man surmised these were building tenants, with a headcount being taken. 

“Anyone unaccounted for?” he asked the woman aparently organizing the group as Idina hovered on the glider next to him. The sound of approaching sirens pierced the air, but if people were still in the building time was of the essence. 

“Two families,” the woman told him, in Spanish accented English. “Mother and three kids on the top floor,” she pointed to a window on the upper level that a frantic woman, crying and screaming in Spanish, had just opened, “and another family on the second floor, we think.” 

Spider-Man turned to Idina. “Take the top floor. Pick them off with the glider and bring them down, hopefully without going inside. I’ll go into the interior to find the others. And be careful - you're not wearing a red hat you know!” 

Idina wordlessly nodded and rose to the top floor of the eight-story complex. She hovered outside the window, just out of grasp of the panicking mother. Two girls who looked like they could be anywhere from 8 to 12 years old, stood nearby and were crying. The mother kept looking back and forth, frantically pointing to a section of the apartment engulfed in flames. 

_So much for not going inside. Someone’s still back there_. Idina studied the window frame, too small to allow her to take the glider inside. 

_Oh, fuck! What do I do now?_

“Get back!” she waved the trio away, as an idea occurred to her. She ripped the window and frame out and dropped them to the pavement below. The opening was still too small to allow the glider in, but she now had more room and better leverage upon which to slip in, and hopefully, out, with passengers. 

While not fluent, as a native New Yorker and part time California resident, Idina had a rudimentary understanding of Spanish, plus the mother’s gestures were informative enough. “OK, OK, I get it –she’s just a baby and she’s in the bedroom down the hall on the right. Calm down and _stay here_ by the window with the other two! I want to fly all of you out here at the same time!” 

_Shit that’s hot!_ she exclaimed to herself as she ran through one firewall and located the bedroom. The mask’s filter allowed her to navigate without being overwhelmed by smoke, but while the suit was flame retardant, she still felt the intense heat. _Now **I’m** going to be a sweaty pig and smell like a chimney, too_. 

_There she is_ , she thought, grabbing the small bundle wrapped in a blanket from her crib. _Must have passed out from smoke inhalation_ , she noted as the child was motionless. _Got to get her to the ambulance quickly_. 

With the baby in her arms, Idina ran back to the window where the glider hovered outside. She gingerly stepped back into the stirrups and reached for the rest of the party, pulling them onto the glider one at a time. “Hold onto me and hold tight! No!” she told the mother as the latter reached for her child. “You need to hold onto _me_ with both arms or you’ll fall off when I take this down. _I’ll_ hold the baby.” The mother put her arms around Idina’s waist, and each of the other children sat and wrapped themselves around a leg. 

"Here we go!" she shouted as she turned the glider around and gently descended, greeted by cheers from the waiting crowd, which was now accompanied by an ambulance and EMTs surrounding a gurney. Idina landed the glider, quickly handed the girl to the rescue personnel, let her other passengers disembark, and stepped aside, sending the glider into hover mode several feet above them. The mother cried and profusely thanked her, before turning to her child > But the relief and joy were short-lived. The paramedics became visibly anxious after placing the child on the gurney and administering infant CPR. Then the mother began screaming. 

_No! **Oh my god – NO!** She can’t be! I was…too late. I failed. **I FUCKING FAILED!**_. 

Idina’s chin quivered and she started toward the gurney, but before taking the second step, a strong grip on her forearm brought her to a halt and pulled her out from the throng. 

“Stay out of the way,” came an all-too recognizable voice. His grip was like iron, and she winced even in her enhanced state. Idina resisted and pulled against Spider-Man, but she budged neither him nor herself. “Let go of me, goddammit!” she hissed as she ripped off the mask filter. 

“Keep it together and _stay away_.” The tone of his voice, although steady, was as serious as she had ever heard it. "Just what do you think you're going to do? What do you think you can accomplish getting into the middle of that scene? I saw your face. A synthetic green one or not, it’s a face I’ve seen innumerable times over the years on others who’ve been pushed to the brink. You were five seconds from losing it almost as badly as that mother. Trust me, that would _not_ do her, you, or anyone else any good. You’ve had enough today. It’s time to go home.” 

“Get. Your. Fucking. Hand. Off. Me.” 

“She’s insane with grief and would likely lash out at you. These people look to us to be stronger than _they_ are. Yes, we are as weak, frail, and scared as them BUT WE CAN NOT SHOW IT! This isn’t a concert where you can be honest and raw and charm everyone by acknowledging your vulnerability and flaws. Whatever sense of order and reason they perceive there to be in this miserable world goes out the window if they see us lose control.” 

“I told you, Spider-Man, there is no _us_! This was a one-time thing – you got that? And besides, the last person I heard about talk about the line between order and chaos like that - was Norman Osborn.” 

She quickly clasped her free hand over her mouth, instantly regretting that last statement, but there was no catching it before it reached Spider-Man’s ears. It was one thing to tell him he was acting like an insensitive douchebag, but quite another to make even the slightest comparison to the monster who murdered the woman he loved, the woman he told Idina he wanted to marry. 

_I’m on a roll with hurting my friends, aren’t I? I’ll be damn lucky to have any left if I keep this up. The way I’m going I might as well stay overseas and not come back to the States_. 

The lack of a quick retort, in fact, the lack of any response at all, told her she had genuinely hurt him - deeply. “I’m so sorry,” she said softly, knowing even if he heard the apology, he would ignore it. He released her arm and turned away, as if saying _Have at it, Bitch_. 

Her arm throbbed once Spider-Man released his grip. She would have to apologize more profusely later. She knew Peter Parker well enough to know the baby's death was eating him up as well, but like so many men she knew, his reaction was to stifle his emotions and shove them down as deeply as possible. Still, his brief lecture bought enough time for her to catch her breath and realize he _was_ right. She couldn’t just jump in and fall to pieces like everyone else. That poor woman didn’t need another hysterical mourner, nor a lecture, and certainly not any bullshit about “God’s will.” 

_But, as a mother, I **know** what she needs right now. I know what I would need_. 

Idina walked slowly into the crowd of mourners, hands at her side. Suddenly, the mother, whose grip around her dead child thwarted even the paramedics’ effort to get her to relax it, noticed her. With as much fury and grief as she could muster, she slapped Idina in the face with her free hand and began screaming at her in Spanish. 

Idina closed her eyes. _It’s not personal. She’s a grieving mother, lashing out and I’m the most convenient target. God only knows what **I** would do if this had been Walker. She has to unleash this…and I’m the one strong enough to take it_. The mother pounded on her chest, continuing to scream, as Idina remained motionless and silently absorbed the blows. After the screaming and hitting stopped, the mother dropped her head on Idina’s chest and sobbed loudly. Quietly, Idina put her arms around the woman, but otherwise remained still. 

It was as if neither time nor the rest of the world existed. The only sound she heard was the mother crying. After it was over, Idina didn’t know whether it lasted thirty seconds or thirty minutes. All she knew was regardless how much time passed, it was one of the longest, saddest moments of her life. 

  


**Next in Chapter 8 - One More Night of Nothing but Tears** – The easiest thing to do after failure would be to give up, except heroes aren’t given that option.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Idina finding an Elsa doll in the wreckage was not meant as a dramatic stunt, and would not be a one in a million coincidence. The last time I was in the Times Square Disney Store, _Frozen_ merchandise was up front and ran deep. A blast like the ones described would strew those characters all over Times Square. I actually underplayed the reality so it _wouldn't_ appear cheap and manipulative.
> 
> I also deliberately turned the "saving kids from a burning building" cliche on its head because I wanted to demonstrate both the highs _and_ crushing lows that any superhero, particularly a _new_ superhero would have to face. 
> 
> Not sure what I can add other than, if this really happened, it would likely be far more horrible and devastating than I’ve made it. And being a superhero in these circumstances would be an ugly, depressing job, so it seemed there was simply no other way to portray it.


	8. One More Night of Nothing but Tears

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After the events of the last chapter, Idina wants nothing more than to be left alone. But she learns that heroes, even when they don’t wear masks, aren’t allowed to hide away when they’re needed.

  
Pictures and videos of the Goblin Queen consoling the grieving mother went viral almost instantly, becoming one of the standout images of that day. Other photos prominently featuring her included one of her staring at the singed Elsa doll in the pedestrian plaza, and her and Spider-Man sitting next to one another during a rare, quiet moment when no insults were exchanged. Her favorite would normally have been the one where she was holding a Toyota Corolla over her head looking for a place to put it. At another time she might have considered framing it, but she was in no mood for prideful or amusing contemplation. 

Empty bottles of Ambien on her bedroom nightstand illustrated her torment over the last two nights. With her current physiology, nothing less than an entire bottle could put her down, and even those pharmaceutically induced slumbers were short, fitful, and unfulfilling. It was noon, thirty six hours after flying from the smoldering building and the grieving family in East Harlem, ripping off the Goblin Queen costume, leaving it and all related hardware in a pile on the safe house floor. From there she proceeded immediately to her apartment, more specifically, her bed, from which she only stirred when nature called or hunger overwhelmed her. She regretted the lack of alcohol since she wanted to continually numb herself during her waking hours, but she doubted she could consume enough to appreciably affect her. 

_Thanks to Norman Fucking Osborn I probably can’t even get drunk off my ass anymore_. 

In the intervals when she wasn’t sleeping, crying or talking to Walker on the phone (she dared not Skype him, lest he see her increasing dishevelment), she caught snippets of television for updates on the attacks to see if responsibility had been claimed or assigned, but no such news was forthcoming. Horrifying photos and videos of the drone attacks showed them beseiging Times Square as thick as a plague of locusts. The talking heads suggested supervillains were not likely responsible, as those were usually divided into two classes: petty criminals incapable of pulling off something of this scale, or egomaniacs of such magnitude it would have been impossible for them to avoid braggadocio. The mystery persisted whether this was a singular statement, or only the first of many. If a motive was suggested, she didn’t watch anything long enough to hear it. Inevitably, her and Spider-Man's exploits during that day would be discussed, often including the image of her and the grieving mother, and she would emotionally crumble and return to her literal and metaphorical darkness. 

Media coverage of this super-powered sighting, being the first interaction between the Goblin Queen, law enforcement and the public, was above average. Most was favorable, except, predictably, _The Daily Bugle_ , which referred to her as “Spider-Man’s new looney-tunes girlfriend who has chosen to mimic the appearance of a known psychopath.” Her public appearance was eagerly received by young girls, with twitter, instagram, tumblr, et al, accounts ablaze with picture sharing. But no matter how much good she might have done, there were too many terrible images, and the lasting one, the one burned into her memory like a brand, would always be the dead child in her arms, the child she didn't save, and the mother’s anger and grief. 

The destruction enabled Idina to alibi leaving Walker with her sister. If the attackers weren’t finished, it was best he stay out of New York altogether. She wanted nothing more desperately than to wrap him in her arms so tightly he would squeal, and smother him with kisses, grossing him out because Mommy was being so mushy and girly. But, she didn’t want him to see her in her present state. She barely kept it together talking to him on the phone. Those conversations were virtually the only contact she maintained with the world beyond her door. She feigned illness in her one call to Heather, but not much business was going to be conducted anyway given the circumstances. Still, it pre-empted Heather from engaging her in any significant conversation, which was just as well as Idina needed more time to summon the courage to drop her bombshell. She couldn't imagine how she could do it...not with what happened...not with all she saw and experienced. She reluctantly turned on the television again, which was tuned to Mayor de Blasio's press conference. 

“We want people to return to their normal routines as much as possible. I’ve talked with the heads of Major League Baseball, the NBA, the Broadway League, others in the entertainment and sporting industries, and business and civic leaders. We all agree that outside of the quarantines around the areas most severely impacted, New York City _will_ continue operating as usual. We are Americans, and we are New Yorkers. We pick ourselves up, we dust ourselves off, and we keep going. We’ve done it before and we _won’t_ be intimidated by cowards unwilling to identify themselves and take credit for actions of which they are no doubt proud. And now, I imagine you’re tired of hearing from politicians and pundits, so our next speaker should be a refreshing change.” 

The mayor stepped from the podium, and his successor at the microphone prompted Idina to sit straight up and scream. 

Kristin? 

_**Kristin Fucking Chenoweth?!!!??**_

_What the **fuck** is **she** doing there?!?_

“I wanted to say something, “ Kristin began. “It was twenty years ago, almost to the month, that the Murrah Federal Building in Oklahoma City was destroyed by a truck bomb, killing 168 people, including 19 children under the age of six. When the Oklahoma City National Memorial and Museum opened, I recorded the orientation video, because Oklahoma is my home. But I’m here to say I consider New York my home as well. Whoever you are, whatever your grievances were, they could have been discussed and addressed in a nonviolent manner, rather than resorting to this. All shows, including _On the Twentieth Century_ , in theaters not damaged in the attacks will be open. Collectively, 100% of non-subscription box office revenue from our two-show days this week will be donated to the care of those injured, and for the families of those lost. We will also conduct fundraisers, and the Broadway League will provide you with more information when those plans are finalized. Even as a Christian, I can’t begin to fathom why God allows these things to happen. But I do know that if we ask Him, He will give us the strength to persevere.” 

_What is this - the opening of _Wicked_ Act II? I was right about at least one thing during that tirade the other night – you **are** a fucking fame whore. You’d let yourself be filmed taking a shit if you thought there was good publicity in it_. 

_**What’s wrong with me**? Is it Osborn’s formula? Or are the old wounds, the old resentments so deep I would accuse her of capitalizing on this? Of course she’s not doing this for herself. The Mayor’s people and the League probably asked her to speak. She may be the most popular and recognizable figure on Broadway right now, and with her hosting the Tonys soon, she was a logical choice_. 

_No – this has **nothing** to do with Osborn and his potions, or even old hard feelings regarding Kris. This is about that child, all the children, that mother, and everyone else that day. I can’t get them out of my head. Those images will haunt me for the rest of my life. I’m so angry at the bastards that did this, I could just …_

Her cell phone buzzed. After seeing “Peter” glowing on the screen, she let it transfer to voicemail. Everything was going to voicemail, but she _especially_ didn’t want to talk to Peter. She listened to most of the messages left behind and responded ONLY when absolutely necessary, but Peter's were deleted without an airing. 

_Why does he keep trying? **Why doesn’t he just leave me alone**?_

But knowing her costumed vigilantes, and it grieved her that she knew a lot more about them now than at this time a year ago, this one in particular would not give up easily. Sure enough, within the hour, the doorbell rang. She ignored it, until she heard it ding out a familiar tune: 

_What the - Spider-Man, Spider-Man, does whatever a spider can–? **Seriously**? Fuck it, I’m not answering._

“Idina, please open the door,” came the voice from the other side. “No one knows better than me what you’re feeling right now. I’d really like to talk to you.” 

_Don’t do me any favors, Peter_. 

“And you know damn well I can let myself in, but I’d rather not unnecessarily enrich your locksmith.” 

_You wouldn’t dare break into my apartment. I know you too well. Peter Parker would never force himself into a woman’s home. Maybe he’ll think I’m not here. I’ll just wait him out until he goes away._

“I **_know_** you’re in there, Idina. I’m not telling you how I know, but I _dooooooooo_.” 

_Not hearing you! Not hearing you!_

“Idina, look, if you don’t answer the door, I’m going to start singing “Let It Go.” And it’ll sound really bad because I don’t know all the words.” 

_Surely he won't just stand there and make a total ass of himself. Wait a minute. How could I forget who I’m dealing with_? 

“Don’t say I didn’t warn you. Ahem! _Snow does something on the mountain tonight, blah blah blah….blah blah blaaaaaah, a kingdom of something or other and it looks like I’m the Queen._ Boy that doesn’t sound right coming from me. Anyway… _the wind is howling like the blah blah blah blah blaaaah…couldn’t keep it in …_ ” 

“ _ **SHUT THE FUCK UP!**_ ” came the exasperated command from inside the apartment. 

“Was that you, Idina or one of the neighbors? Because I can’t tell over my singing. OK – here comes more. _Don’t let them in, don’t let them see, be the good girl you always have to be._ What kind of lame lyrics are these? I can’t believe this was such a hit. Was payola involved? Yeeesh!” 

Idina flung the door open, her disheveled state rivaling her appearance at the end of that night at the Gershwin, and _that_ was after being tied up, beaten up, and shot. Her eyes were swollen and her hair molded into a bizarre shape (due to wearing a full head mask) that would likely break the first comb or brush that tried taming it. She was back to her typical casual wear of a T-shirt, sweats, and bare feet, but hadn't showered or changed since coming home, stretching "casual" beyond the breaking point. If Osborn had given her the power to shoot daggers out of her eyes, there wouldn’t be enough left of Peter Parker to put into a mop bucket. 

“Excuse me ma’am, I thought a world famous Broadway Diva lived here. I didn’t realize it was a shelter for homeless women.” 

“Fuck you, Peter. Go away. I don’t feel like putting up with your shit.” She began shutting the door, but Peter help up a hand and stopped it. The stress on it became audible with the two exerting pressure from opposite sides. 

“You know,” he said, “we can stand here and glare at each other while we break this door in half. And I might even start singing again.” 

“Fine,” she snapped with resignation, releasing the door, turning around, throwing her hands up in the air and walking back to her bedroom. “Help yourself to the TV and refrigerator. I’m going back to bed.” 

“Dammit, Idina, stop it!” 

She angrily spun back around. “Oh go fuck yourself, Peter! I don’t want to hear any of your self-righteous bullshit! I hate you right now! I hate you for talking me into going to Times Square with you! I hate you for spending half your life wearing a stupid Halloween costume and punching out people instead of using your genius to benefit mankind! I hate you for your stupid fucking feud with Norman Osborn!” 

“So getting complimentary tickets to your Atlantic City show in July is now out of the question?” 

“And I _especially_ hate you because you don’t know when to stop with those stupid fucking jokes! I wish I had never known you, Peter, never known Norman Osborn, or SHIELD, or anything about your fucked up super powered world! You want a laugh? How about this? I’m not doing the fucking tour! I’m going to get Walker back from my sister tomorrow and we’re leaving New York and not coming back! We’ll go to California, or Hawaii or some other place where idiots in costumes don’t have the run of the place, and where maniacs don't fly planes or drones into buildings!” 

Idina anticipated - no - _wanted_ \- Peter to match her furious tone, to escalate the argument until she burned away the pain. And she needed to know he was hurting as much as she was, and acknowledge it. But he didn’t do that. After she declared wishing she never met him, his face briefly looked anguished, but he recovered and his expression became stoic. He dropped his head and glanced aside, not looking at anything in particular, debating his next course of action. 

“You cannot be serious about cancelling your tour,” he finally said quietly, looking at her again. 

“How can I do something as frivolous as a fucking tour? After all of this?" 

"Is this what you did after 9/11? Crawl in a hole and pull the dirt in over yourself?"

_"That was different!"_ When 9/11 occurred, Idina was set to debut in _Aida_ that very night. That performance didn't go on as scheduled, but soon after the theater community decided returning to the stage was necessary - to give people an alternative to the horror on their doorstep, and a confirmation that life must and will go on. But this...

"How was it different?" 

"What kind of stupid fucking question is that? You have the fucking nerve - after what we saw? What we did? All of those people in Times Square..."

"In other words - you didn't just sit in the comfort of your apartment and watch _this_ disaster unfold on TV. 9/11 was like a movie to you. This time - you saw how real it was."

"My god, Peter, a child died, _maybe even while I was holding her_ because I didn’t get her help fast enough! I'm a fucking failure as a superhero, Peter! I can’t sing empowerment songs like “Let It Go” and “Defying Gravity,” when I'm so worthless and weak and feel all like shit inside! Everyone will know I’m faking it." 

“If you hadn’t been there, everyone else in her family might have died as well.” 

_Goddammit, Peter! **Fight** with me! Stop being so fucking calm and reasonable!_

“Oh, and that’s what _you_ tell yourself all the time, isn’t it, the man with the world’s biggest guilt complex? Yeah, I saved 3 of the 4 people from that burning building – that’s enough right? Not according to my critics. They say 75% isn’t good enough of anything! And when it comes to people’s lives, _children’s lives_ , they’re right! Don’t tell me you wouldn’t be going through the same thing.” 

“I would, and I have. Many, many times.” 

“OK, I get it, Peter. OK? I get it. Whatever I say you can trump that times one hundred. But I can’t do this! I can’t be a superhero, and I sure as hell am not going to be a superhero cooked up in Norman Osborn’s lab! The Goblin Queen has retired, _permanently_! And frankly, Idina Menzel needs to go away, too. Time to take my son and find a fucking island.” 

“I can’t tell you how many times _I’ve_ hung up the costume and said I was done, including the time I accidentally gave myself four extra arms. But, I didn’t come over here to talk you into being a superhero, Idina.” 

“So why the hell _are_ you here?” 

Peter looked momentarily flustered before recovering. “Believe me, I’m wondering that myself right now. I knew you would taking this hard, and I thought I could help. But I won't ask you to be the Goblin Queen. I’m asking you to be Idina Menzel.” 

“What the fuck does that mean? Is this an Adele Dazeem joke?” 

“No it’s not. Forget the Goblin Queen, _Idina Menzel_ herself is pretty damn important to a _lot_ of people. Have many girls’ Twitters have you seen saying you saved their life? How many letters have you received? Because your singing and portrayals told them it was OK to be different – OK to be who they were, regardless of the box society tried putting them in?” 

“Teenage girls exaggerate and dramatize. So do I, if you ask my friends." 

“But what if only a handful of the girls who tell you that are doing it without the hyperbole? What if just a small fraction of those girls truly decided not to cut their wrists in the bathtub, or hang themselves from their ceiling fan because of you? Doesn't that still mean something? 

“Why do you think these girls idolize you? Yes, you’ve played strong and tormented female characters they relate to. And they know _you_ personally are an emotional train wreck. They’re emotional train wrecks, too. But you get up every day even when you don’t want to. You get knocked down and you get back up. You did that when your career hit speed bumps, when your marriage fell apart, when you barely got out of the Gershwin with your life. It’s not that you’re perfect, Idina. They adore you because you’re gloriously _imperfect_. They see that _you_ don’t have any more of a clue to why life sucks than they do. When they see _you_ struggle, but still make it through the day, they realize it’s OK not to have all the answers, that it’s normal, and that means _they’re_ OK.” 

Idina's angry look disappeared, replaced by a sad and weary one. She slowly walked over to the couch and sat down, with Peter occupying the chair next to her. The room was quiet for the next minute, until Idina began to speak, now calmly. 

“When you workshop a new play, or particularly a new musical – it’s a fucking mess. You don't see how it will ever come together. When producers and investors first see it, they scowl a lot, talk amongst themselves, take notes, and I always imagined them saying “Idina sucks” and "get her fat, untalented ass out of here" under their breath. You really don't know what you have until you literally put it in front of an audience. The first time we did with _Wicked_ , in San Francisco, and later New York - we knew we had something special, something that touched people. But it wasn’t until later we realized just _how_ much. 

“I’ll always remember the CD release party. Kristin was out sick that day. I think there was something like 500 people in the signing line, and it seemed every 15 or so was a young woman between 15 and 25 years old. A lot were women of color, Asian women, and even some Pakistani women wearing headscarves. Many of them just burst into tears when they got to me. I kept getting out of my chair and awkwardly leaning over the table to hug these women. They told me " you’re the first person to demonstrate how I feel in my own life, how alone I feel, and how much I long to be empowered.” And I’d be fucking crying myself. 

“But, I was just a former wedding singer who got lucky. I was no fucking role model! I had no practical advice to give them! I couldn’t change _anything_ about the world they came from, the one they were going back to, where they would face the same challenges and humiliations they faced before! So I sure as hell am NOT a superhero! I didn't ask for this, Peter! My dream was to perform for a living and get a record deal! I wanted to be Barbra Streisand or a rock star! I didn’t ask to be an icon to little girls and fucked up teenagers!” 

“You wanna know something, Idina? To those little girls and teenagers – _**you**_ , not the Goblin Queen, are the superhero.” 

“Some superhero. I couldn't even keep my own husband from fucking other women! I’m just an overstressed mother and singer and actress who’s barely keeping her life together!” 

“That’s all any of us are... well, maybe not the mother thing…or the singer thing…or the actress thing. Wait a minute. I’m _nothing_ like you…what the hell are we even talking about? 

“Idina, yes, there are other superheroes, definitely ones with more experience and qualifications fighting crime and pulling people out of burning buildings. But, no one is asking you to fight crime or pull people out of burning buildings on your tour, are they? 

"No, you don’t have to be the Goblin Queen again, or use your powers for – whatever. But you do have to do this tour. Idina, you have to be you because you're the only one who can be.” 

“OK - _THAT_ is now _THE_ stupidest fucking thing I've every heard! What Chinese fortune cookie did you pull that pile of lard from?"

“Just because it’s lame doesn’t mean it’s not true. It's not like I prepared and rehearsed anything profound while web swinging over here! Besides, I thought if I did the "power and responsibility" speech, you'd kick my ass.” 

Idina dropped her head, tired, worn out, desperate to slink away and crawl under the covers again, but she wasn't finished unloading her burdens. 

“Kris hates me now. She won’t return my calls, or my texts. I’ve tried to apologize to her but she won’t let me.” 

“Oh, I seriously doubt she _hates_ you. You know, I’ve never really understood your relationship. I didn’t think you two were best friends anyway. You’re never seen together and I don’t get the impression the two of you even talk at all.” 

“We’re not best friends, and you’re right, we almost never talk to each other or see each other, except a couple of times this last week. We exchange some tweets every now and then, but that’s pretty much it.” 

“So what’s the deal? You guys always seemed so close when you were doing _Wicked_. Were you guys really...and like...had a bad break-up or something?” 

“What? NO! Get your mind out of the gutter, Pervert-Man!” 

“Oh yeah - like a lot of people haven’t wondered if you two were doing each other back then! You checked the internet lately? Or in the last ten years or so?” 

“What? Are you saying you read that shit?” 

“Hey – I have no money and it’s free porn! Some of it’s pretty good. Strange thing, though, you guys are _always_ horny and you’re never doing boring things together like grocery shopping or watching TV or getting pedicures. You’re either in a show or having sex. And it’s _always_ great sex with multiple orgasms every time! No one ever has a headache or performance anxiety or washes out in the sack.” 

“You are a sick, sorry little bastard, you know that?” 

“Well, then what? Do you guys like each other or not?” 

“Well, not _that_ way. It’s complicated.” 

Peter rolled his eyes and tossed his hands up. “It always is with women.” 

“God, men are such assholes! You can shove your condescending bullshit up your ass! It’s not a _woman_ thing. Haven’t you known someone you’re completely different from, yet it’s scary how much you actually understand each other, how you see through each other’s bullshit better than anyone else? Because the two of you have been through experiences together no one else could understand or relate to? By everyone's reckoning you _should_ be close, but never will be - but it doesn’t matter because you’re forever linked whether you like it or not?” 

“Oh, I think I know exactly what that’s like,” Peter said softly, looking away. It took Idina a moment before recognizing the reference, but she had enough demerits on that subject and knew not to pursue it. 

After an uncomfortable moment of silence, she stood up, crossed her arms, and asked, “Is there anything else?” in a tone Peter interpreted to mean he had overstayed his welcome. 

“I guess not,” he said quietly, as he rose, looking at Idina again, then turning away once he saw her hard stare. “I guess I’ve said all I came to say.” 

“Well you should probably go,” she hastily responded. “I want to go back to bed.” She continued standing with her arms crossed, and a glare that cut deeply into him, as if to say “get out of here, asshole.” 

“I’m sorry. I won’t bother you again.” 

“Good. Keep it that way.” 

Peter wordlessly exited. Idina momentarily waited, then rushed to the door and flung it open, looking up and down the empty hall. She walked back into her apartment and slammed the door, closing her eyes. She sat down hard on the floor and began to cry. 

_Goddamn you, Peter. Just…goddamn you_. 

  


Idina finally admitted to herself the reason she had avoided Peter was she feared he would talk some sense into her, the last thing she wanted. But although she abruptly dismissed him before his points took hold, it was too late. In his own clumsy, annoying way, he was right. She needed to stay with the tour. In times of turmoil, people need entertainment and the arts even _more_ , not less. And there was no question _she_ needed the tour. It was as essential to her as breathing, and she would never forgive herself for quitting, hurting and disappointing so many people. Still, she continued wrestling with it, worried the emotional toll would negatively impact her performances. 

_People have much higher expectations of me now. Then there’s the ideals people have projected onto me, the emotional investment they are making in me which I don’t want to disappoint even if I don’t completely understand it. Only **one** person I know really understands it at this level._

_But she’s the one who doesn’t want to talk to me_. 

_Still, if the events of late have taught me anything, anything at all, it’s that **everything** can be taken away in a heartbeat. I don’t know if I believe in something beyond the current life we have, but either way, I can’t let Kris and my relationship end on this note. I **have** to see her. And I can’t even wait until the evening show or I’ll talk myself out of it. I have to do it **now**. _

After confirming the matinee was on as scheduled, Idina quickly cleaned up and bolted out the door. _I don’t care if people see me without make-up, or think I look like a worn out old hag next to Kris and I don’t care if our Twitter accounts melt down. She can't avoid me if I show up on her fucking doorstep_. 

  
The interior of the American Airlines Theatre was an historic Italian Renaissance style, a fact unknown to anyone who only saw its exterior, which was but a sliver along the other facades of 42d Street, bounded by chain restaurants. If not for the marquee, it would be a "blink and you miss it" attraction. Owned by the Roundabout Theatre Company, a non-profit organization, it was relatively small, seating only 700, with a largely subscription-based clientele. By contrast, the nearby Lyric, where _Wicked_ currently played, seated over 1,900, comparable in size to the Gershwin before the latter's destruction. 

Idina approached the venue from 8th Avenue and 42nd Street to avoid venturing too closely to the collapsed New Amsterdam, not needing another image of destruction and misery burned into her brain. She briskly strolled down 42nd, her apprehension rising with each step. She believed it was easier to charge into Oscorp Tower and force her way into seeing Norman Osborn than doing _this_ , although it was more likely _she_ would be the one getting punched in the face this time. 

When she reached Regal Cinemas, she knew something was terribly wrong due to the huge throng of people ahead. The presence of several police cars, ambulances, and a fire truck wasn’t because they were still investigating the wreckage of the New Amsterdam. By the time she reached B.B. King’s the crowd was almost impenetrable. 

_Oh no. What’s going on_? 

She took a deep breath and pushed her way through the crowd. With her current physiology, it took no effort to move aside anyone in her way. The most difficult part was not letting anxiety and fear overwhelm her that she forgot herself and started knocking people over as if they were bowling pins. It was imperative she get through as quickly as possible before the majority recognized her, which was likely even with her hat and sunglasses. Once she made it to the barricade holding back the crowd, she placed a hand on top and lept over it, immediately inviting police attention. 

“Stop right there!” an officer shouted, moving to cut her off from reaching the door. 

_Oh shit, I’ve already been shot by the cops once. Don’t want to relive that experience_. 

“Let. Me. Through,” she calmly, but very deliberately, stated to the officer. She didn’t want to create a scene with the police, particularly since every one of them would justifiably be on high alert and on edge, but she _really_ didn’t have time for this. 

“One more step and you’re under arrest.” 

_Oh fuck, what do I do now? Play the “don’t you know who I am – I’m Idina Menzel” card? That worked real well for Reese Witherspoon when she got picked up for drinking and driving. Knock him aside and rush for the door? Yeah, and invite myself to be shot and arrested, not to mention raising a lot of questions in peoples’ minds_. 

“Wait!” a second cop yelled as she rushed to her partner’s side. “Don’t you know who that is? Go, go, go!” she said, opening the door and frantically waiving Idina inside. 

Idina uttered a quick thanks, entered the building, ran through the lobby and turned into the theater. The stage looked like a triage. Doctors and nurses were examining and bandaging people who were standing, sitting, and lying flat on their backs. Occupied gurneys rolled off the stage to waiting ambulances. She quickly looked around for familiar faces, with the absence of one in particular beginning to frighten her. 

“Kris,” she gasped, her anxiety level climbing by the second. 

Andy Karl sat on the lip of the stage, legs dangling over the orchestra pit while his wife, Orfeh, pressed an ice pack against his face. Idina met Andy during 2014 Tony Awards, when they performed numbers from their respective musicals, she from _If/Then_ , and he from _Rocky_ , playing the title character. 

“Andy! What’s going on?” She shouted as she ran down the aisle to him. 

“Bunch of goons with guns," he responded wearily, gritting his teeth as his wife increased the pressure on the ice pack. "They took Kristin. She fought them like a wild dog until they knocked her to the ground.” 

“ _Took her?_ " Idina asked, panic setting in. "Who’s they? And – why?” 

“They didn’t say, but it was clear they came for _her_. I think it was the same guys behind the bombings from a few days ago, because one of them got a little mouthy about it before one of the others shut him up.” 

Noting the cuts and bruises on his face, she asked “Are you going to be alright?” 

“Guess I really am Rocky in name only,” he joked sadly. “Still, I’m doing better than a lot of others." 

“Andy got one of the bastards,” Orfeh said, angrily. “Flat knocked him out and the cops have him.” 

“I just wish I could have done more, wish I could've saved her.” 

“Andy, Kristin would _not_ have wanted you, or anyone else to get hurt. Where’s her dressing room?“ 

“Why? What do you need from there?” 

“Just take me.” 

After Andy led her to Kristin’s dressing room, Idina first looked for Maddie to ensure she was OK. The poor girl was frantic. She scanned the make-up table until she found what she was looking for – Kristin’s inhaler and pain medications. She fumed, worrying Kristin could have an asthma attack and be unable to cope without her inhaler – not to mention the pain she could be in without her meds. While the wattage Kristin generated in person could overwhelm mere mortals, she was very fragile physically, and could be easily be seriously harmed - or worse. After grabbing Kristin’s medical supplies and stuffing them in her purse, Idina began to bolt out of the room before Andy gently stopped her by placing a hand on her shoulder. 

“Idina, what are you doing?” 

“What I _have_ to do. Please make sure Maddie’s taken care of. Kris will be anxious to see her when she gets back.” 

“What _you_ have to do? Idina – I'm sorry, but what the hell do you think _you_ can do?” 

_Just watch_ crossed her mind as a possible response, but she saw that the angry and determined look on her face visibly startled Andy, so she settled on something more mundane. 

“Uh...I’m, uh, going to give these to the police so they can give them to her when she's rescued.” 

Andy appeared no less confused and skeptical, but decided against mounting a challenge. His expression suggested _Always figured she was crazy. Nice, but crazy._

Upon leaving the dressing room, she rolled her eyes. _That was a fucking lame answer. How has Peter kept his identity secret all of these years with the weak excuses he’s come up with to justify slipping away and changing into Spider-Man? How did he fool anyone?_ Her conversation with May Parker came to mind. _Perhaps he hasn’t fooled as many as he thinks._

After exiting the stage door, she began her sprint into Lower Manhattan. In all of the chaos, no one was likely to realize the stage door had been ripped off one of its hinges _after_ the terrorists left with Kristin. 

_Time to "Phone a Friend,"_ she thought, pulling the spider tracer from her purse. _Assuming he’ll even talk to me._

  
**Next in Chapter 9 – Heroes Know That’s What it Takes** – Spider-Man and Idina discover the attackers' motives. That was the easy part. The hard part will be - what will they do about it? 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story Idina tells Peter about the CD signing is 100%... **TRUE**. Gregory Maguire, the author of the _Wicked_ novel upon which the musical was (very loosely) based, described this scene in _The Grimmerie_ (the souvenir book of the musical). I lifted much of Idina’s dialogue directly from Maguire’s recollection. It may not sound quite like how Idina herself might describe the event, but I really didn’t want to change any of Maguire’s words. 
> 
> Now, I’m not suggesting Peter Parker actually reads Chenzel or any other online smut – just consider what he’s trying to accomplish, and from what he's deriving amusement. It ain’t the porn.


	9. Heroes Know That's What it Takes

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spider-Man and Idina discover the bad guys’ motives, but how do they find out what the masterstroke is going to be? And where does Kristin Chenoweth factor in all of this?

  
Idina was in full gallop south on Broadway, reasoning she could reach the Goblin safe house faster on foot than by retrieving her car and fighting New York City traffic, as the city would likely be on lockdown again due to this latest terrorist activity. The Goblin Formula didn’t give her blistering speed, but her endurance had multiplied exponentially. She pressed the spider tracer, immediately following it up with a call to his cell, presuming he would more likely answer if the tracer signal pre-ceded it. Her intuition proved accurate, as she heard a familiar voice before the third ring. 

“My, my, my – what a surprise. To what do I owe _this_ profound honor?” he asked sarcastically with a stuffy, formal air, his muffled voice suggesting he was in costume. 

“I know you said you weren’t going to bother me again. But I didn’t say I wasn’t going to bother _you_ again, did I?” 

She interpreted the subsequent long pause as him weighing continuing the conversation or telling her to piss off. She couldn't blame him if he did the latter. Although he had been nothing but supportive, in his usual irritating and pun-laden manner of course, she tore into him in _her_ usual manner. It was how she was, how she had always been, possessed of an emotional rawness she tried so long to conceal, fearing it wasn’t how “normal” people behaved. Strange that it mattered, but she had hoped Peter could handle that part of her without blinking. Maybe that’s why her anger toward him earlier was so unrelenting, to push the boundaries, test his limits, and why his relative calm had frustrated her so much, because _that_ she didn’t know how to read. 

“Guess you didn’t,” he finally replied, in a noncommittal tone. 

_Goddammit, Peter, what does that mean_? 

“So _who's_ calling me?” he asked. “Because as I remember, _someone_ told me she was retired. I’m about to teach a couple of dudes a lesson about taking rides in cars that don’t belong to them, so hopefully I can get a quick clarification.” 

“ _Someone_ also told you she wanted you to remember some things, like how she really felt about what you asked her to do. She wanted you to remember those things no matter _what_ she might say later. Ring any bells?” 

After another long pause, and a deep, resigned sigh, he asked, “Are you OK? You sound like you’re running.” 

_You’re a good man, Peter Parker_. 

“I’m running to – the place. Those people behind the attacks – they hit the American Airlines Theatre and they took Kris! I – I need your help.” 

“Why would they take Kristin?” 

“I don’t know, but we’ve got to do something.” 

“ _ **We**_?” 

“Yes, goddammit, _we_. And no, I’m not speaking French.” 

“Say “pretty please with sugar on top.”” 

“Just get your ass there, Mama’s Boy.” 

“Good enough. See ya, Elphie.” 

Before the call disconnected, she heard cries of surprise, profanities, loud grunts and bodies being slammed against fiberglass and steel. 

_Ouch. That sounds like it hurt_ , she thought, speeding past the Hare Krishnas and chess players on Union Square. 

  
If she could angrily tap her feet while her boots were magnetized within the glider’s stirrups, she would. If she could run her fingers nervously through her hair while a mask covered her head, she would. If she had a watch to check every five seconds - ditto. Upon changing, she was far too agitated to watch the security screens awaiting his arrival, so she flew out on the glider, de-activating the cloak upon achieving a sufficient distance from the safehouse so it couldn’t be identified as her point of origin. Circling the sky with the safehouse as the epicenter, she hoped to spot the dilatory (in her frantic perception) web slinger on his approach. 

_Where is he? For someone who web swings so fast he’s almost a blur, he's slow as hell getting where he’s supposed to be!_

Passing over the Financial District, she noticed two men on the ground jumping and waving, vying for her attention. She wanted to continue circling should Spider-Man finally appear, but didn’t feel comfortable from this height judging the legitimacy of their need for assistance, so she began descending. She stopped within twenty feet of the pair, hovering above the ground to give herself a modest height advantage and some distance in case this was a set-up. Which it was - but not what she anticipated. 

“You guys need help?” she asked warily. Both held their hands up to demonstrate they were unarmed, each wearing large smiles. One remained in place as the other approached her, business card in hand. They looked like nattily dressed Wall Street clones, mid-late twenties, not long out of the Harvard School of Business, already plying the trade of moving large piles of money from one rich person to another, skimming their percentage for a down payment on a Ferrari or a place in the Hamptons. The perfectly coiffed hair, large smile and bright white teeth on the man walking toward her signaled he probably spent more time looking at himself in the mirror than she did. He handed her the card, identifing him as a securities trader. 

“I know you people are busy, but I've been completely blown away by what I’ve seen of you on television. You're a welcome change from the usual spandex-wearing clowns. So, if you get some time….” 

Idina stared at the card, him, the card again, then him again. Reveling in his brazenness, he believed he was impressing his friend, who continued to watch from a distance. Still, he _was_ pretty hot, stylish, nice bod, supremely confident. He’d look good on the arm at a Broadway premiere or Hollywood red carpet event. Youthful male arrogance and ego untempered by life experiences. 

_Aren’t I entitled at this point in my life? Men parade around in public with young arm candy, why can’t I? It'd show my fucking ex what he didn't want any more had plenty lined up to take his place. Being a MILF sounds like a lot of fun. But I can't dress like this on a date or in bed - unless that's _exactly_ what he wants. His timing really sucks, though._

“What the fuck is this? You’re asking me out? Seriously? In the middle of all this shit going on, you’re asking me out?” 

Her indignant tone and bold language startled her potential suitor as he apparently had a pre-conceived notion how superheroes, _female_ superheroes in particular, were supposed to talk. 

“Well, I thought that was pretty obvious,” he responded hesitantly, still trying to keep the smile at its present wattage. 

“Hmm. What if I told you I’m really a single mother in my 40’s?” 

The smile remained on his face, but its sincerity drained away, leaving only the facade. “Seriously?" 

_Figures. I've got more important things to do than waste time with this motherfucker_. 

“You're as sharp as you look, Stud. Can't fool _you_ , can I?” She asked, smiling, letting him relax and laugh. “OK – here’s the truth,” she continued sincerely. “I'm 25, blonde, work as a stripper for extra cash, and _am hot as fuck_.” 

“I knew the single mother story couldn’t be true. So what do you say?” 

“I say,” she continued smiling, flicking the card into the air. “You’re lucky I don’t hang you on a flagpole by your underwear you self-important douchebag.” The glider quickly rose in the air and took flight. 

After watching her fly away, the jilted potential suitor reached down and picked up his card, quickly changing his disappointed look before facing his friend, who was now next to him, anxiously asking: 

“What’d she say?” 

“She's a lesbian.” 

  
_HA! That felt good! As Idina Menzel I have to smile and be polite in public – but as the Goblin Queen I can tell people to fuck off! Maybe the costume’s worth it just for that! It's sooooo cathartic. Speaking of douchebags..._

Spider-Man was perched on the side of a building, with a clear view of her encounter with the Wall Streeters. While she couldn’t see Peter's face, she knew he had been deliriously entertained by the scene that transpired. 

“How long have you been there you bastard?” 

“I was passing by just as they flagged you down, so I decided to watch. You're a real heartbreaker and ballbuster aren't ya?” 

“And _you_ are a - !” 

“I know, I’m a dick. All right, Elphie, what's your plan?” 

“ _My_ plan?” 

“Well, yeah. You weren’t going to play dress up without a _plan_ were you? Or was your idea of finding the bad guys flying around the city until you caught one of them outside taking a smoke break? You’re _not_ telling me you're making this up as you go, are you?” 

“Hey, I’m not the superhero here, _you_ are.” 

“Says the green girl flying on a hunk of metal who asked _me_ for a Team-Up. In for a penny, Elphie." 

“Stop calling me Elphie.” 

“Eh, don’t sweat it. I make it up as I go all the time. Let's go warm up the computer in your secret lair.” 

“Why?” 

“Show and Tell. It’s time you learned what this is all about. Ready, Witchiepoo?” 

"Ready, Dickhead." 

  
After Idina logged on (as “Adele,” of course) she handed the wireless pad operating the TV/computer to Spider-Man. They removed their masks and sat in front of the large wall-mounted screen as Peter provided narration. 

“I’d like to claim a singular genius, but I wasn’t the only one who figured this out. If you'd been watching TV instead of wallowing you probably would've heard it yourself. You’re familiar with the term “gentrification” aren’t you?” 

“I spent more than a year playing a city planner. I probably know a hell of a lot more about the subject than you.” 

“Don't break your arm patting yourself on the back. Anyway…here are all of the strikes in Manhattan that day.” 

A schematic of Manhattan Island appeared on the screen, pulsing dots identifying the location of each drone attack. 

"I'd say "abracadabra" but that's more your line..." 

Another schematic, with shaded census tracts identifying locations where old neighborhoods had been razed and replaced by new developments, was overlaid on the earlier grid, with the resulting effect that each of the pulsing lights, with the exception of those in the Times Square area, were within a shaded area. 

“And voila." 

“Sonofabitch," Idina swore softly. “But gentrification is happening in all five boroughs. Have you been to Brooklyn lately, particularly Red Hook?” 

“I know, but in the terror game, attention and casualties are the prizes, and the biggest bang for the buck is still Manhattan.” 

“But, if someone's protesting gentrification, how does that explain Times Square? The New Amsterdam? And why was the Marquis virtually obliterated?” 

“That brings us to our second secret word of the day - _Disneyfication_. Since you’re a _lot_ older than me, you probably remember what Times Square looked like in the 70’s and 80’s don’t you?” 

“Asshole,” she muttered. "Yeah, my parents took Cara and me there for shows. You didn’t dare wander down the wrong street and it was impossible to get anywhere without someone trying to sell you drugs. Historic old theaters were showing porn, and you couldn’t count all the shops where you could buy your own. Nowadays, it’s guys trying to stick you with tickets to bad comedy, girls with painted tits, and losers dressed like superheroes hustling tourists. You _really_ need to sue some of those guys. Particularly the fat ones." 

"I get a cut. Anyway, 42nd Street between Seventh and Eighth Avenues was averaging more than one rape or murder _a day_ , and parts of Times Square were literally abandoned. 

“Then in 1990, the city and state took over several old theaters along 42nd, including the New Amsterdam. And in 1993, guess what large corporation signed a 99 year lease for that theater and started pumping millions of dollars into it?” 

“Disney. Duh.” 

“So simple even a Broadway diva can figure it out. Re-development began under Mayors Koch and Dinkins, but took off when Giuliani ran out the porn shops and whoever else he considered “undesirable.” As the area became cleaner and safer, some people complained it lost its character and was becoming “Disneyfied.” Disney’s impact is exaggerated, but our “friends” hit the Disney Store and the New Amsterdam to put an exclamation point on their actions. 

“And here’s where the Marquis comes in. Even before Disney or Giuliani, the Marquis was the first major project in revitalizing Times Square. _Five_ historic theaters were demolished to make way for the hotel. They called it "The Great Theater Massacre of 1982." So, if you’re wanting to make a point about New York changing into the playground for the one percenters – this was a damn effective way to do it.” 

“But killing people over it? _Killing children?_ Like you said, Times Square used to be a shithole. Who misses that? And what kind of sick fuck does all of this just to make a point?” 

“The same kind who blew up the Murrah Building in Oklahoma City and the daycare center in it because they were pissed off at the Federal Government. And don’t get me started on 9/11. Whenever the “rebirth” of New York City is discussed, Times Square is at the center of it. Someone is either saying they liked the old New York better, or they lost something or someone in the changeover. I'm guessing the latter. But I don’t think this was the big score.” 

“Why not?” 

“Because whoever did this hasn’t claimed responsibility – isn’t bragging – isn’t announcing their motives to the world. If this was the end, they would be loudly reveling in what they’ve done. No, something else is going to happen.” 

“But why kidnap Kris? Why not go after Giuliani or Bloomberg, or De Blasio or someone like that? Nothing against Kris, but just how is she _that_ important?” 

“The Mayor is probably in lockdown while these lunatics are out there and Bloomberg’s got more money than Osborn and can afford an army to protect him. Giuliani’s not here much as his law firm and security firm has offices all over the world. And I don't see using any of them generating the sheer outrage these lunatics would want. Kristin made herself an attractive target when she became the “face” of New York picking itself up by being at the Mayor’s press conference and making the rounds of the talk shows." 

“But for what? What will they want in exchange for her?” 

“This wasn’t a kidnapping for ransom. They're going to sacrifice her on the altar of what comes next.” 

"Dear God. And what's that?" 

“I have an idea, but I don’t want to lose valuable time chasing red herrings. I’ve got to make a call and then we're going on a road trip.” 

  
“We’re just going to walk in through the front door?” Idina incredulously asked as they stood in front of the nondescript four-story limestone building, home to one of New York City's police precincts. Smoke and other residue over the decades had blackened the front, almost rendering unreadable the "New York City Police Department," cut into the stone when it was built as a WPA project during the Depression. The numerous window units were a reminder of how modern air conditioning struggled in old buildings during the heat of a New York summer. “Don’t you crawl in through a window, or down a vent, or up through the plumbing or something sneaky like that?” 

“Nah – they know me here. The Captain’s a friend of mine. Hey – how ya doin’?” Spider-Man waved in the direction of a “Yo, Spidey!” on the street. 

“I'll be your definition of _friend_ is very broad here. Wait a minute – did I just get catcalled?” 

“Nah – I’m the sexy one. Why are you stressing about going into the police station? You got some unpaid parking tickets?” 

“First - only in your dreams. Second - no.” 

“Pot stashed in your utility belt?” 

“No!” 

“Afraid they’ve got a blown up screen shot from “Ask the Dust” hanging in there?” 

“You’re an asshole. Hey - how do you know about- ?” 

"C'mon Elphie, supper's waiting and Mom hates when we're late," Spider-Man gestured her to follow him as he walked into the building. 

The environment within the station was a study in contrasts. Several officers knew Spider-Man and seemed to like him, as they were the ones who greeted him and laughed off his insults. Some he knew by name, and he asked one how her husband was doing in the aftermath of an unspecified incident. Others were indifferent to the costumed characters as if they were as much of the scenery as the prostitutes and drug dealers rotating through on a regular basis. Then there were those who clearly bore them, and Spider-Man in particular, a healthy degree of animosity, but they largely remained silent. While some of the looks _she_ received were hostile, others were…unmistakeable.

“Hey Spider-Man, who’s your girlfriend?” asked an officer in a smarmy manner, with obvious contempt. 

“Your wife. She wants you to pick up a gallon of milk on the way home. She was going to call you when I was there but her mouth was full.” He looked around the squad room. “Anyone else? I’ll be here all week – tip your waitress.” 

Walking into the Captain’s office, Spider-Man whispered “new guy” to Idina, and she overhead another cop tell the one who confronted the wall crawler “You dumbass, you don’t fuck with Spidey.” 

Behind the desk in the Captain’s office sat an annoyed and tired Asian woman signing papers and turning them over to another officer. The nameplate read “Captain Yuri Watanabe.” On cop shows, the police captain always seemed weary and cynical, and based on Captain Watanabe's appearance, perhaps art really did imitate life. Once the officer to whom Watanabe passed the papers left, Spider-Man noticed a Hispanic woman also sitting in the office against the opposite wall. An ID badge dangling from her coat pocket identified her as visiting FBI. “Good to see you again Agent del Toro.” 

“Wish I could say the same, Spider-Man,” replied Angela del Toro. “Nothing personal.” 

“I’ll try not to take it that way. How we doin' Cap’n?” Spider-Man jovially asked Captain Watanabe as the door closed behind them. “Heard your brother Ken got a Tony nomination for _The King and I_. Tell him congratulations from me when you see him.” 

“Spider-Man,” Watanabe wearily sighed. “That joke wasn’t funny when he was in that Godzilla movie last year and it’s less so now. And what the hell is _she_ doing here? I thought you'd sworn off partners after that debacle with the Black Cat.” 

“Oh, you mean my youthful ward? She’s in the Superhero Mentoring Program, where the rookies shadow an experienced superhero, and then we turn them loose in a new city. She’s going to Schenectady when her internship is over.” 

“I know you’re the last person needing to be told this, but despite what she did a few days ago, and lighting up teenage girls’ Twitters, Goblins _do not_ have a good reputation in this city." Turning to Idina, she continued. "So, you want to tell me where your costume and toys came from? I doubt it was Sharper Image." 

“What makes you think she isn’t a brilliant scientist and engineer in her own right? You’re not being sexist are you, Captain?” Spider-Man whimsically asked. 

Captain Watanabe shot Spider-Man a look. “Ever since you costumed loose cannons started showing up more than 20 years ago, there hasn’t been a Goblin, and there have been a lot of them, that hasn’t been a criminal and a psychopath. What makes her different?” 

“Because she is. And I need her help.” 

“Who is she?” 

“Sorry, that’s classified. Always wanted to say that.” 

“Why should we trust her?” 

“Because, _I_ do. Completely.” 

“Your word doesn’t carry much weight in a lot of precincts, Spider-Man. It only does here because Jean DeWolffe and I were friends and I know how highly she thought of you. But she also thought you were the biggest pain in the ass of all this city’s costumed goofballs.” 

“So it’s not just me,” Idina said, relishing the chance to join in rather than simply be a bystander. 

“As for _you_ ,” the Captain exclaimed while turning back to her. “I don’t know one fucking thing about you. The only reason you're not sitting in an interrogation room is as a courtesy to _him_. So do yourself a favor and leave the jackassery to your friend Chuckles the Clown here. Now, are we ready to get down to business?” 

“That was a _flawless_ impersonation of Jean. My compliments,” Spider-Man said. 

“I’ll take it as one. Now shut the fuck up, both of you.” 

Sensing Idina's frustration at being on the outside looking in, and to head off the retort he knew was seconds away, Spider-Man turned and gave her a small signal to be quiet and follow his lead. She gritted her teeth and held her tongue, knowing this was a culture he was far more experienced navigating than her. 

“Spider-Man, I am not here,” Agent del Toro stated as she rose from her chair and walked to the costumed heroes. 

“Got it.” 

“Good. You and some of your fellow cos players took down the Yakuza, the bastards who killed my partner, when they tried to get a foothold in Hell’s Kitchen. I’m not a fan of you people running around without accountability, but unlike some of my peers, I have no doubt what side you’re on.” 

“Now that we’ve all said our hellos,” Captain Watanabe interjected. “Like I told you over the phone, Spider-Man, yes we have the perp nabbed during the American Airlines Theatre raid that took Kristin Chenoweth. Naturally he’s not talking, and he's lawyered up.” 

“Hmm. You think _I_ could have a little heart to heart with him?” 

“Spider-Man,” Watanabe sighed. "Do you people ever consider how many cases get thrown out of court because you barge in without considering the legal consequences?" 

“Look, the fact that these assholes carried out such a high profile kidnapping means they aren’t done. The Bill of Rights is sturdy enough to take a little stomping on if that's what's needed to stop this. And as much as I despise the methods of the guy with the skull on his chest, if this little pissant walks he won't get far. So what do you say?"

“Do you have an idea, smart guy?” 

“Yes I do.” 

“Do I want to know what it is?” 

“Probably not. Shouldn’t he be transferred out of your holding cell to Riker’s pretty soon?” 

The captain stared down at her desk for a moment, gently shaking her head. Raising it back up, she grumbled softly. 

“God help me, one of these days you're going to fuck up big time and cost me and a bunch of us our badges for letting you pull this bullshit.” 

“So let this be a warning to you, Spider-Man,” Agent del Toro stated. “You'd better not be anywhere near here come 90 minutes from now. You got that?" 

Spider-Man glanced at Del Toro, then back to Watanabe. The resignation on her face suggested she had been far ahead of him and already had a damn good idea what he wanted to do. It neither meant she liked it or agreed with it, and certainly wasn't about to acknowledge any role in expediting it. But desperate times... 

“Youthful Ward, when was the last time you saw a grown man mess his drawers?” Spider-Man asked Idina. 

“Probably when my ex mixed alcohol and Mexican food right before he got a bad stomach flu,” Idina replied. "Splattered the walls and the bathroom floor, too." 

“Aw geez...I had to ask." 

  
The suspect was hustled out the door wearing the standard prison orange jump suit, in manacles and towards a waiting wagon. He curiously noted only three officers accompanying him, and giving him a fairly wide berth, not huddled as closely as he thought they would be. Before reaching the vehicle, a voice rang out. 

“Cowabunga!” 

In one fell swoop, Spider-Man grabbed the prisoner and swung away. The officers watched as the two faded into the distance. 

“Damn, Spider-Man snatched him right out from under us,” one deadpanned. 

“That's a fucking shame,” a second said in a similar tone. 

“Guess we're in a lot of trouble now. You guys want to grab coffee before we tell the Captain?" the third asked. 

  


While in transit Spider-Man sprayed web fluid over the man’s eyes and mouth to preclude him from previewing the webslinger's plan or protesting it while swinging from building to building. Minutes later, they came to a stop on a rooftop, but not just any rooftop. Landing approximately 5 feet from the edge, Spider-Man ripped the webbing off the man’s face, which prompted his unwilling companion to release numerous profanities.

“Welcome to One World Trade Center!” Spider-Man exclaimed with the enthusiasm of a new tour guide. “Opening in October 2014, its footprint is exactly the same as that of the original Twin Towers. And did you know that counting the spire, its height is exactly 1,776 feet, a reference to the year the US signed the Declaration of Independence? Now, you know, most people have to be content with the view from the enclosed Observation Deck in the building, but because you’re special _you_ qualify for an experience denied everyone else. So, what would you give for this personalized tour? Like, say, information on where your pals are holed up, where they’ve got Kristin Chenoweth, and what their plan is?” 

“Fuck off, Spider-Man,” came the defiant response. Although momentarily taken aback by his current location, his resolve stiffened when the web slinger questioned him. 

“With that mouth, I know just the woman for you. Except last I knew she didn’t date vermin. So, what if I say I’m gonna throw you off the roof if you don’t tell me what I want to know?” 

The prisoner scoffed. “You’ve been around too long, Spider-Man. Everyone knows you’re soft and you don’t kill. You're not going to throw me off the roof. I ain’t afraid of you.” 

“Oh yeah?” Spider-Man grabbed his collar and in a long underhand motion cast him into the air and over the side of the building, an action followed by a surprised scream. 

“Ah, nothing like the dulcet tones of a bad guy screaming while plunging 100 stories to his death. Eh, that would too good for him. Golly, I sure hope someone catches him before he goes splat on the pavement.” 

As if in response to Spider-Man's musings, the Goblin Queen rose on her glider, holding the prisoner, who was still screaming and cursing, by an ankle. 

"You're crazy! All you people are fucking crazy!" 

Idina gently moved the glider within six feet of where Spider-Man stood, but without crossing the rooftop threshold. 

“Dammit, Spider-Man!” She exclaimed with mock anger. “How many times - _how many fucking times_ have I told you _not_ to throw garbage off the roof? Is it that hard for you to use a wastebasket?” 

“I didn’t see one!” 

“Spoken like the five-year-old you are. What the hell do you expect me to do right now?” 

“Hmm. How about asking him the whats, whens, and wheres of their devious plan?” 

“I told you, Spider-Man, I ain’t scared of you. You don’t have it in you,” the prisoner yelled, although his boldness began to evaporate. 

“Ha! You’re right!” Spider-Man slapped his upper thigh. “Ya got me, pal. I’m too much of a nice guy. But, I don’t know if you’ve noticed _who's_ holding you upside down with nothing between you and a quarter mile drop to the pavement - cuz it ain’t me.” He waved his hands rapidly with palms facing forward and fingers splayed. “See? Jazz hands! 

“Now, _she_ is an honest to god _Goblin_ , on a first name basis with the original. Surely, you know the reputation Goblins have in this city, don't you?” 

The man's face paled. 

“Thought so. As you know, Goblins, especially those of the verdant variety like this one, aren't particularly nice people. Normally they don't care what assholes like you do, but this one's a big musical theater fan. She's got tickets for _On the Twentieth Century_ and was dying to meet Kristin, get her autograph at the stage door, bow down, kiss her feet and tell her how awesome she is.” 

Idina scowled at Spider-Man, her thoughts transparent. _You are sooooo pushing it, "Spidey." Dick._

“So, needless to say, you boys have **_seriously_...pissed…her…off!”**

“Spider-Man, I’m fucking tired of holding this guy!” Idina exclaimed, shaking the dangling prisoner by the ankle. 

“And she’s PMSing, too. So, _what_ are you assholes up to, _where_ are your cronies, and _where_ do they have Kristin Chenoweth?” The glider began slowly moving further away from the building. 

“You wouldn’t,” he said to Idina, the earlier defiance in his voice now changed to fear and uncertainty. 

She looked down and gave him a full, teeth gleaming, ear-to-ear smile, which was particularly striking against the background of a green mask. 

“Try me, motherfucker.” 

  
After leaving the webbed up man they had just "questioned" with the cops around the holding cell, Idina and Spider-Man quickly relocated to Captain Watanabe's office, where Spider-Man began talking before the door closed. 

“Captain – you need to initiate an evacuation of _everyone_ within _at least_ a half mile surrounding 432 Park Avenue.” He summarized for the Captain the results (but not the methods) of the "interrogation" which included location and actions to be taken. Unfortunately, it did not include the exact timing, as that was a carefully guarded secret among only a select few of the attackers.

“Wait a minute! Won’t that tip them off that we’re on to them?” Idina asked. “They might bring the tower down sooner, or kill their hostage!” 

“I sympathize completely, but its the safety of tens of thousands compared to one,” Captain Watanabe replied. “If the magnitude of what you've described is accurate, they probably can't hurry it along much, but it's damn likely to happen sooner rather than later. Unfortunately, they have the highest vantage point in the city, so no one can sneak up on them, particularly with men on the rooftop with rocket launchers. Well, no one _normal_ that is. Still, we can't just evacuate a huge swath of Manhattan Island on a whim. And I don't know that the Mayor and Governor will give a quick thumbs up to your next course of action based on the dubious interrogation tactics of you and your little green friend.” 

“We’re not waiting for authorization. Tell the Mayor, or whoever’s chain you have to jerk, to get the developer’s plan to that thing in here right now! Because unless Bruce Willis is already in there, we’re your best chance at resolving this!” 

Watanabe sighed heavily. “There’s a conference room you two can hole up in while I make some phone calls.” 

As Spider-Man led Idina out of the room, she asked “What is this shit? We’re just going to sit and wait? We’re not going to go there now? We don't have time to sit and wait!” 

“Elphie, if they’re in the penthouse suite like their man said, I have to know all points of access. Knocking on the door or crashing through the window won't be the most effective course of action, and we'll lose even more time wandering around looking for a way in. Despite the denials they'll make to the contrary the police know they have little choice but to help me. I know the Mayor well enough to know that while he's not a member of my fan club, he doesn't believe Jameson's bullshit and he knows what I've done for this city all these years. It shouldn't be long, but rather than stressing out in the hallway...” he gestured to the conference room. "You know, if I had realized that just by using that one expletive I could successfully extort confessions, I’d have adopted it in my repertoire ages ago!” 

Idina looked at him sharply, as if to say _You're trying to be funny while madmen are threatening to bring down the largest building in Manhattan and murder thousands of people?_ But it was another of Peter's diversions to relive some of the tension as they waited. If they were in her apartment or the safehouse, she'd be screaming at him to go to 432 Park _now_ , and he would probably have to physically restrain her. However, he was right. They had to know where they were going and have a game plan. 

But just because he was right didn't mean he was any less annoying, or that she had to like it. 

"It’s all in the delivery,” she responded as they sat down at the table in the room, deciding to play along. It beat wearing out the floor pacing. 

“And to think your breakout role was as a Disney Princess – yeesh.” 

“Go watch the movie again, asshole. I’m not a Princess, _I’m a Queen_!” 

“You’re also a Witch, if I recall, which is so on the nose I'm surprised it wasn't considered typecasting.” 

“Oh, that reminds me - PMS jokes? Really? That’s the best you can do? If you little pricks bled five days every month you wouldn’t think it was so fucking funny!” 

“You’re just making my point for me.” 

The room went quiet, as if both realized this "round" was over. When Idina spoke again, it was in a softer, more casual, conversational tone. 

“So, did you really mean that?” 

“What - about you PMSing?” 

“No, dumbass. About trusting me completely?” 

“Well, certainly not to _sing_ at a high profile gig, particularly in the cold, but in other…” 

“And you are _still_ a dick,” she interjected before he could finish. 

“So let me ask _you_ a question now," he started. "Would you have really dropped him if he didn’t tell you want we wanted to know?” 

“You wouldn’t have let me.” 

“That’s _not_ what I asked.” 

Months ago, she would _never_ have considered herself capable of the things she had contemplated doing, or even already done. Not long ago in interviews she proclaimed squeamishness at the violent Bruce Lee movies Walker loved so much that he made her watch with him. But that was before Norman Osborn. Before Miles Warren. Before that night at the Gershwin. Before maniacs set fire to the city, murdering innocent people. Before cradling a dead child in her arms. Before Kris was kidnapped. 

“Of course not," she muttered unconvincingly, then diverted the topic of conversation. "My turn again. Tell me about Jean DeWolffe.” 

“Why?” 

“Because I want to know.” The abrupt defensiveness in his voice told her volumes already. 

“She was a precinct Captain here in Manhattan. Nothing else to say,” he quickly responded, delusional enough to believe that quick and meager response would satiate the curiosity of one Idina Menzel. 

“You know what I was asking, you moron. She was more to you than that. I can tell. Were you - ?” 

“No – and what makes you think that’s any of your damn business?” 

“Asks the asshole who wanted to know if I used to finger my little blonde co-star.” 

"Touche," Spider-Man said so softly she barely heard him. 

He looked away and sighed, knowing he’d left himself open to someone more than capable of throwing his own words and his own bullshit right back at him. Mary Jane, and more notably, Felicia Hardy, could be pointed with him, but they also possessed a subtly and slyness enabling them to carve him up good before he realized what happened. Tangling with Idina - that was akin to bare knuckle brawling. 

While not intending to cause him additional pain, she felt entitled to know, since Jean DeWolffe's trust in Spider-Man was obviously a factor in why she was allowed into the police station and why they had been granted the leeway to take the actions they did. Also, he pushed the boundaries in discussing her relationship with Kristin and it was quid pro quo time. 

“When I first met Jean," he began, "she could have been from central casting, if you were filming a crime noir featuring an ambitious, tough-talking female cop trying to make her way in a man’s world. She even drove an antique Roadster and was a chain smoker to seal the look. Not long after first meeting her, I helped clear her brother of crimes for which he'd been framed. So, she tolerated me a lot more than the other precinct captains, ran interference for me a few times, and helped a friend of mine get a conditional pardon. Once she settled down on the job and became more confident, she began leaving the caricatures behind. She even sacrificed her Roadster and nearly her own life saving that same friend one of my enemies was determined to murder. 

"She was a damned good cop, and she had balls - which I mean in a good way. She could be tough as hell to deal with, but she was always fair. She never bought into any of Jameson's bullshit about me, nor gave a rat's ass what her peers thought about me or how she dealt with me. And she never forgot why she carried a shield in the first place. She never acted like the badge and the title gave her the right to act like a street bully or feudal lord, like a lot of these assholes do. But holy cow, she was **_always_** ripping a hunk out of my ass for something, usually my tendency to play a little fast and loose with the rules. How Captain Watanabe talked to us earlier was a love song compared to some of Jean's tirades.” 

_You have that effect on people,_ Idina wanted to say, but held her tongue. She didn't want to cause Spider-Man to tangent or stop talking altogether as this was one of the few times he was letting her see the man behind the clown act. 

“She took a double barrel shotgun blast through her torso from a serial killer, a sick bastard who blew away people in the justice system he thought were “soft on crime.” After the cops processed her apartment, I slipped in by myself, hoping something would trigger my spider sense and give me some clues.” 

He paused and looked down, rubbing his forehead as he contemplated how to proceed. Idina knew what was coming next was the information she really wanted. 

“In her apartment, I found a large file of photographs and clippings – about me. At first I thought she was doing a study on me or superheroes in general but it turned out many of the pictures of me _also_ had Jean in them. And others I knew originally included a significant other of mine at time, but Jean had cut her out of the picture.” 

There was a moment's pause as Idina processed this information and came to the inescapable conclusion. “She...she liked you,” came the barely audible response. 

“I’m waiting for the inevitable comment about her lack of taste, intelligence or judgment.” 

Idina sadly shook her head. _I am so sorry, Peter._ “You had no idea she felt that way about you?” 

“Not a damn one." _That_ didn't surprise her in the slightest. The tone of his voice subtly changed to reflect his anguish. "It's just...I mean...she was always giving me a hard time. I never thought…I just wished she’d…” He stopped. 

“Did you catch the guy?” 

“Damn near beat him to death. Might have if another friend hadn't stopped me and talked some sense into me. I’m _not_ proud of it. Are we square now?” 

She nodded. For years she had assumed "Spider-Man" was a reckless and violent vigilante, possibly a mentally ill man who derived a sadistic satisfaction in beating up people. She never imagined the anguished, tormented soul in front of her, seeking redemption for a horrendous mistake, a redemption he would likely never find. Although he was very much a strong and healthy young man in his 30's (like her former co-star James Snyder, who was Peter's age), his eyes possessed a weariness betraying a multitude of life experiences others could only imagine, and who had suffered more loss in his relatively short life than others might in multiple lifetimes. 

“Spider-Man,” Captain Watanabe walked into the room holding a laptop and a small external drive. "The plans for 432 Park Avenue are on this drive. Someone got careless and failed to properly secure them, which is how you and your teenage sidekick got them.” 

“I understand," Spider-Man replied. 

“Good luck,” Watanabe said quietly, absent the bluster, sarcasm, and irritation peppering her earlier conversation with the two. She quickly turned around and exited the room. 

“More code for "if you fuck this up, we never knew you?”” Idina asked. 

“And here I thought you were a slow learner. Like I've said, I'm still a vigilante operating outside the law. People like Yuri and Angela and others without the luxury of a mask and a secret identity to hide behind would face serious consequences for aiding and abetting my actions. Your glider has a cloak?” 

“Yeah. You’re asking for a lift, aren’t you?” 

“And _I’m_ even willing to say “pretty please with sugar on top.”” 

Idina allowed herself a smirk before her attention diverted to what was to come next. 

_God help me, but Norman was right – it’s not a nice world. And what’s even worse is I can’t wait to get my hands on these bastards. What’s happened to me? I’ve never thought like this before. But after what I’ve seen these last few days…I swear if Kris is harmed in any way, or if one more person dies, each and everyone of these motherfuckers is getting their tickets punched straight to Hell._

  
**Next in Chapter 10 – The Worst That Things Can Be**. Showdown at 432 Park Avenue. Does a novice superhero have a chance? Or will Spider-Man use logic and reason to talk her out of accompanying him? Yeah right - and how successful do you think that would be?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Alright, gentrification is not a particularly sexy motivation for bad guys and terrorists. But (1) as I've said before, I didn't want any religious or racist agendas and (2) I wanted someone to attack New York because it's New York, as opposed to other sexy targets like Washington DC. I want my characters to really inhabit New York City, for it to be a character as well. Gentrification is a big issue in New York (and other cities as well) that has gotten a significant amount of air time (well, at least stuff I've watched). I got a lot of information from a website called ny.curbed.com.
> 
> Now, as coarse as the language has been in this story, I’m still conscience of overusing it - particularly the “big” ones. But to illustrate where I'm coming from, during an interview with Broadway World.com, Idina was asked what her favorite swear word was since she’s notorious for using them. Without hesitation she replied “motherfucker.” I won’t even say what she said her favorite body part was when she was asked, although you can probably guess.
> 
> And everything that Spider-Man says about Jean DeWolffe is part of the canon - most notably in the classic story "The Death of Jean DeWolffe."


	10. The Worst That Things Can Be

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Spider-Man and Idina come face to face with the bad guys in their attempt to prevent another disaster from befalling New York. Can they succeed _and_ save Kristin Chenoweth? Or does everything and everyone go up in a monster fireworks show?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Unfortunately, this chapter starts off incredibly similar to Chapter 7 of the previous story, from the status of the damsel in distress to the lead bad guy’s monologuing. I don’t know if that demonstrates the overwhelming power of certain comic book tropes or a complete lack of original thinking on my part. Probably both, although certainly tilted more to the latter.
> 
> To keep any hint of other agendas away from this story, I deliberately avoided giving any of the “terrorists” names or descriptions. As such, they are a bit underdone.

  
  
The view was everything she imagined it would be from this single floor, 8,255 square foot palace 1,300 feet in the air. The ten by ten foot windows along all the walls showcased the entire New York metropolitan area, with today's clear skies adding to the breathtaking depth. To her left, Midtown and Lower Manhattan beckoned, with both the Empire State Building and One World Trade Center within the frame's confines. Directly ahead, past the grand piano, was New Jersey. But it was a _good_ view of New Jersey. The white Hollywood tufted chaise lounge chair in which she reclined provided comfortable support for her aching neck, shoulders, and upper back, from which the pain was becoming more pronounced as her medication, taken copiously prior to what she had anticipated would be a routine matinee performance, wore off. Normally, visiting this $95 million penthouse, soon to be one of the myriad homes away from home for a Saudi Arabian retail and real estate titan, would have been a highlight of her time in New York this summer. 

_Normally_. 

But, _normally_ , her wrists wouldn’t be bound together with black tape, with more tape encircling them and her upper thighs. Her upper arms were bound to her chest, and her ankles and knees were wrapped together. To ensure her mouth remained sealed, her captors tightly wound tape around her head, punishment for her earlier resistance, which also earned her a large welt on her left cheek. 

The nightmare began in her dressing room, before the doors opened for the matinee performance. Screams and other violent noises from outside were followed by her door being kicked open and two men pointing guns at her and her dresser. Poor Maddie barked with much more ferocity than her diminutive size would seem to merit, earning the threat of being shot, along with the dresser, if Kristin resisted. She was grabbed by the arm and dragged out so suddenly she had no shoes and was in her stocking feet. 

She had no intention of being uncooperative, believing that would increase the likelihood that she, and everyone else at the theater, would be unharmed. However, after a stagehand simply standing in the way was indiscriminately shot and Peter Gallagher took a vicious back end of a weapon to the face when he attempted to reason with them, she realized people were going to be hurt regardless, just for the sheer cruelty of it. Her resistance quickly ended after the man she eventually realized was the leader backhanded her and sent her sprawling to the floor. Seriously dazed after that, she barely remembered being loaded into a van and arriving at 432 Park Avenue. 

She became more cognizant of her circumstances after they took her up the private elevator to the penthouse. At that point she began resisting again and arguing with her captors, furious with their earlier needless brutality since they clearly had the upper hand. When she learned they were also responsible for the earlier drone attacks on New York City, she unleashed numerous non-Christian comments, biting the captor who clamped a hand over her mouth during that tirade. Thus, her current status, although 1,300 feet in the air surrounded by gunmen there wasn’t anywhere she could go or anyone’s help she could summon. 

At least she was in a comfortable chair. And she was surprised she hadn’t had an asthma attack and her vertigo hadn’t viciously kicked in, so maybe God was still looking out for her, although she definitely wanted to ask Him why He let this go on as far as it had. That moment of skepticism reminded her of an earlier incident. 

_Dee. How ironic is this? We could have used you at the theater, couldn’t we? With the way you took down those hoodlums the other night, could this have turned out differently? Never figured out how you did that. But I never gave you a chance to explain did I? From all of the texts and voicemails you left, you tried. You begged for forgiveness for what you said, and I should have listened. But, I was so mad, so hurt. That night reminded me of many of the old fights we had back in the day, the hurt feelings it took so long for both of us to overcome. It felt like the wounds were all ripped open again, and I just didn't feel forgiving, which wasn’t very Christian of me. I guess in a way, I was both scared **of** you and **for** you. Something happened to you, something that made you so sick and angry, and I should have let you vent without fighting you. _

_But we've never handled things that way have we?_

“Some view, isn't it?” came a conversational voice from behind her. She quickly turned her head in its direction, causing her to wince as she felt a surge of pain in her neck. She pulled on her bonds and mmphhed out an angry demand to be untied. Her captor simply shook his head and looked at her with disdain. 

“No, we learned our lesson. You could have been sitting there comfortably but you fucked that up, so you’re going to stay like that.” She growled into her gag, narrowed her eyes, and strove fiercely with the tape. A dirty look, loud indeterminable language and crinkling tape noises were the most effective protests she could muster. 

He walked over to one of the large windows and stared out over the length of Midtown and Lower Manhattan. 

“This used to be such a rich, diverse, beautiful city. Not "pretty" by any means, but beauty takes on many forms, many colors. You're wondering what this is all about, aren't you?” he asked as he turned to her, walking by the Steinway  & Sons Grand piano and gently running his fingers across the keys. “I suppose you have a right to know, although I’ll sound like one of those goddamned costumed lunatics. You know, the ones who tell you their fucking life story as they explain their diabolical plan, why they're doing it, how you'll never be able to stop them and all of that other bullshit. But, you might as well know what the cause is since you’re going to die for it.” 

Her eyes widened and a low, muffled squeal came from her taped mouth as her captor continued. 

“It’s really pretty simple. It’s about poor, working people without a whole hell of a lot to begin with being forced out of their homes, losing their businesses, their culture destroyed, all so the fucking one percent can have more space to play. I guess like a lot of men, it starts with my father. I grew up on the Lower East Side when it was definitely on the _“lower”_ side. My father, frankly, was a bum. I’m not going to defend many of the choices he made in life because they were often the wrong ones. He was a failed musician who played on the street, and in our apartment, usually too loud wherever he was, irritating the hell out of everyone. He drank too much and was always in someone's way. You couldn’t help but literally run into him on the street because _he_ sure wasn’t paying attention to where he was going. 

“So, yes, he was a bum, and a shit father, but he was a _harmless_ bum and shit father, a neighborhood fixture in a strange sort of way, I suppose. He didn't assault people, didn't stick a can in their faces asking for money, didn’t wander aimlessly screaming profanities at imaginary people at the top of his voice. Yeah, he had an open guitar case, collecting whatever he got, which wasn't very fucking much in our neighborhood, then running to the liquor store for more shit to numb himself with. But, when people had enough and the cops showed, he usually behaved until either me, or one of my brothers or sisters, whoever's turn it was, came to get him and take him home. He was a pain in the ass, but in the end, he was just trying to get through his miserable fucking life the best he could. Everyone in the neighborhood understood that, because no one was that different from him. They were all just another wrong turn or two from being where he was. Shit, even the cops understood, at least enough to know the difference between a bum and a real hard-case. 

“But that all changed when the neighborhood did. First it was the new condos, then the new residents, then the new stores, bunch of fucking overpriced coffee shops and vegetarian bullshit, and then the new cops. People barely getting by in their rent-controlled shitholes were forced out. I don’t know where a lot of them went, but there were fewer and fewer places to go. The new people who came in didn’t understand, didn’t tolerate people like us, like my father, and the new cops who came with them didn’t either. The one time, _the one fucking time_ , my father went nuts – probably because rather than being talked to like a fucked up human being, he was treated like a criminal, cracked upside the head and hauled off to jail. He didn’t make it through the night. Knowing him, he said something stupid to the wrong person, whether in the holding cell or the back of the police car. After we lost him, we lost our home because our building was the next one to be “upgraded.” Do you know what’s it’s like to lose your home – with no place to go? We lost our family after that. My mother didn’t outlive my father by much and the siblings split up, each to take care of themselves. I don’t know where half of them are. 

“New York was never paradise, and those old neighborhoods were shit, but they had character, they were distinctive, they were made up of working people with common ethnic backgrounds, and “starving artists” in search of cheap studio space. Now it’s no longer New York, it’s Disney on the Hudson. "Gentrification" they call it. Genocide, _I_ call it. I tried to move on, left the city, got a job, tried to focus on other things. 

“But when this… _monstrosity_ started going up…that was enough. You can’t go anywhere in the five boroughs without seeing it, the next act in the luxury class' continuing purge of the working class. This is the house that inequality built - 400,000 square feet of usable space but only 100 livable units. And that’s just the beginning. A dozen buildings, just like this one, more than 1,000 feet tall, are planned. 

“Did you know the management of this place set up a sales office in the Ritz Carlton in _Moscow_ of all places, because dozens of Russian billionaires passed through there every day? The goddamn _Russians_! Remember when they were our deadliest enemy, when we were just a faulty radar reading away from Armageddon? And now people are kissing their asses and groveling for their money. And the same with the fucking Chinese. 

“Over time, I met others who felt as I did, and we found backers who hate this city and country as much as we do and want to see it go down in flames. My plan was to target just the condos, and spread it out over ALL the boroughs, with this as the coup de grace. But...our sponsors wanted more splash and flare, more tourists killed, so we hit the Marquis and Disney sites rather than places in the outer boroughs. Our message got across, and this is still the final act of the show. I am sorry about the gas main explosion we caused in East Harlem. I had no intention of hurting any of those people because they're the ones whose plight we want to draw attention to. But every war has collateral damage. 

“I originally had a politician or businessman in mind for the upcoming ceremony, but when you spoke at the press conference and on the talk shows and did your whole little blonde cutie pie shtick, running your mouth about things you don't know shit about, something occurred to me. Who would care if we killed an old bald man in a three piece suit? But someone like _you_ , with your big smile and your silly voice and your talk about God and Jesus. Hell, they might actually care if someone like you died." 

At that moment, one of his comrades rushed in and nervously interrupted his monologue. 

"Have you seen what's going on?" 

The leader looked down at the street and surrounding area, noting the flurry of police cars and fire trucks. Although looking like ants from this height, one could still make out streams of people moving frantically, abandoning buildings. Panicked gridlock had already brought most of the automobile traffic in Midtown to a halt. 

“The Mayor ordered an evacuation of everyone within a half mile of this place. They know," the associate continued. 

“That's all right," the leader said, turning back to the messenger. "They probably found out from the man we lost at the theater, but it was inevitable once access and communication to and from this building was cut off. Get me an update on how the set-up is progressing downstairs and see if they can push a bit quicker. Tell the boys with the launchers to stand ready on the roof in case we get visitors from the air, and our hacker to prepare to break into the television transmissions. It's time for round one, I think.” 

Kristin’s eyes opened wide as the upcoming catastrophe was set into motion. She furiously strove with her bonds again, but the effort was as futile as the others. Although her thoughts first raced to the people she would leave behind, her parents, her friends, Maddie, and of the things she still wanted out of life but hadn’t achieved, such as marriage and children, they soon fixated on the terror to be visited upon the city, and the lives that would be lost. 

_Lord, if you’re there, New York City and I could really use a guardian angel_. 

_Better make it two_. 

  
Idina was in flight over the New York skyline, Spider-Man standing behind her on the glider to take advantage of the cloak, his clinging ability allowing him to adhere to it without holding onto her. They disabled their respective headsets to avoid being overheard if anyone was monitoring communications. 

“Looks like the evacuation order went out,” she said after stealing a quick look at the activity in streets below. 

“Let’s hope we can make it redundant. Begin your swing around the tower like we discussed.” 

On Spider-Man’s direction Idina flew the glider in a wide arc around the top floor of the building as he stared through a small pair of high-tech binoculars. 

“Take notes, Elphie. Two guys on the roof with rocket launchers ready to take out anyone or anything trying an aerial assault. Kristin's in the Southeast corner. One guy’s in there with her – make that two…there's one in the Northeast corner covering three windows, another in the Northwest corner covering another three...” He continued until he accounted for the number the arrested terrorist identified. 

“We’re invisible -why are we hanging back this far? Why don’t we get right up to the windows, or better yet, just fly in right under their noses and take them all out?” 

"Do you know how your cloak _really_ works, "Adele""? Spider-Man asked as he lowered the binoculars. "It’s not Harry Potter’s invisibility cloak, you know. It doesn’t actually render you totally invisible.” 

“What? So why's it called a cloak and what’s the point of having it?” 

“We see objects because they absorb light. Norman’s cloak, however, diverts the light _around_ the glider and everything on it. If we’re not moving and someone looks directly at us they don’t see us because the cloak is diverting the light away from us and bending it back to what’s behind us, so that’s what someone sees. It’s essentially a still image. However, if we're moving, the cloak still works but because it’s constantly re-bending the light the net effect is a distortion, like a large ripple in the shape of us that _can_ be seen if someone is paying close enough attention. You ever see the _Predator_ movies? We’re invisible from a distance because we’re small relative to the perspective. But if we fly right up to the penthouse, with those huge windows, as closely as they're watching for an attack, someone will notice the distortion.” 

“And yet you marvel at a Keurig machine.” 

“You haven't been in this business long enough to do meta references." 

"As horrible as this sounds, particularly with Kris in there, if, as Captain Watanabe said, it's the lives of thousands compared to one, and we know where they are, couldn't the military just shoot some long range missles into the thing and blow them all up?" 

"Blowing all of _them_ up wouldn't necessarily prevent the bombs from going off depending on where those are located. If they're as smart as I think they are, they likely have the detonator primed for just such an eventuality, like how Miles Warren blew up the Gershwin last year _after_ Osborn killed him. Besides, killing Kristin for the "greater good," or justifying killing a small number of innocent people to save a larger number is a slippery slope I'm not sure anyone wants to cross unless that's the absolute final option. But now that we’ve got everyone accounted for, we'll start near the bottom of the building and fly in circles, gradually rising to see if anything triggers my spider sense. No one’s _living_ in this massive Lego tower yet since it won’t open until the fall. At some point, we’ll go in through a window of one of those empty multi-million dollar condos and finalize our battle plan.” 

_Our battle plan. It’s like we’re going to war. I guess in a way we are_. She wished there was a word to sum up how she felt at this moment. It would have to reflect the almost exhilarating feeling associated with doing something heroic, doing something that _really_ mattered. But it would also have to reflect that every nerve was screaming for her to turn back, that she had too much to lose, that she might leave her son behind. 

She took a deep breath as the glider began to descend. Within approximately 100 feet of the building, five stories up, Spider-Man wrapped his arms around her waist, pressed against her and attempted to force her to initiate a turn. 

_**“ELPHIE!** TURN AROUND AND GET OUT OF HERE NOW!! DON’T ARGUE! **JUST DO IT!!!**_!” 

His frantic appeal without any hint of scarcasm or humor suggested not only was the situation desperate, but understated. She banked the glider hard, climbed into the air and ramped it up to maximum speed, but that still wasn’t enough to escape the concussion wave that rocked it when the first several floors of the building exploded. 

  
On a holographic map above his desk, Norman Osborn watched the glider's tracking signal steadily move towards 432 Park Avenue. The readings indicated above normal power consumption for that model, which was likely the result of two things – its cloaking device was engaged, and it was carrying nearly 300 pounds. Unless Idina was binging on a high fat diet, she had a passenger, likely taking advantage of the cloak to approach the tower unseen. 

_Parker_. 

Then, the signal made an alarming turn and rapidly moved away from the tower before disappearing altogether. Osborn lept from his chair and stepped toward the nearest window. From this vantage point in Oscorp Tower on Lexington Avenue, he could clearly see 432 Park, and the smoke billowing into the air. He cursed himself for his emotional reaction, since he would be unable to ascertain whether the glider and its passengers had been destroyed simply by “looking out the window.” Logic dictated he remain seated at his desk to see if the signal re-appeared, but his logic was compromised where Idina was concerned. Carolyn’s frantic voice exploded from the intercom. 

“Mr. Osborn, the Mayor has ordered the evacuation of everyone within a half mile of 432 Park Avenue!” 

“Did I request something from you?” Osborn asked emotionlessly while continuing to stare out the window, as if she had interrupted him by asking if he wanted lunch. 

“No, sir,” Carolyn quietly responded, once again realizing too late she misjudged the level of Osborn’s concern for matters outside certain boundaries, boundaries continually shifting due to his mercurial temperament. Whatever pre-occupied him now, not even a mandated evacuation of a portion of the nation's largest city superceded it. 

“Then good-bye.” 

“But the evacuation order…we’re only …” 

Osborn responded with increasing irritation. “I understand the concept of the circumference of a circle, and I also understand that as the crow flies we are well within that circumference with regards to that building. However, if your panties are in a wad then by all means, run away like the other sheep! Regardless what you do, do not bother me again unless _I_ call for you first!” 

After Carolyn clicked off the intercom, Osborn noted with great relief the tracking blip re-appeared, hovering over Chinatown. Her command of the glider was improving with each passing moment, he proudly noted. The formal training, in tandem with the memory implants, was working. 

_My dear Idina, normally I would blame that naïve and idealistic fool Parker for talking you into joining him on one of his damned righteous crusades. But why do I suspect your own impulsive and foolhardy nature is as much a factor as any persuasion from him? I would have thought after the other night you had enough of the “hero” business._

_But then again, that nature is one of the reasons I love you._

_For her sake, I hope you succeed against this filth, Parker. But, if any harm comes to Idina..._

  


“You owe me one hell of a dinner after _that_ ,” she said between gasps for breath as Spider-Man removed his arms from around her and the glider slowed to a hover above the Brooklyn Bridge Bike Path between Chinatown and the Financial District. 

“Maybe Five Guys offers candlelight and a Mariachi Band. I don’t have any shrapnel in my back or my butt, do I?” he asked, turning around.

“No. Thank goodness,” Idina replied after giving his backside a quick glance. “Because there was no way I was going to pull pieces of metal out of your ass. What the hell just happened? And if you tell me the fucking building exploded I’m going to zap you with _both_ my middle fingers.” 

“My spider-sense nearly blew a hole in my skull. I doubt I have to explain why.” 

“Why didn't it warn you earlier?” 

"It’s unlikely the explosives were actually armed until just prior to detonation. My spider sense is a tricky, selective thing, which I suppose is good or it would go off every time I passed a sack of fertilizer, a gallon of gasoline or a box of firecrackers. They knew we were eventually going to deduce their location. Now they’ve ensured no one can get into the building through the ground floors, which makes it even more obvious it’s up to _us_ to resolve this. Gotta give credit where it’s due, Elphie, you handled the glider well. I may have to take back what I’ve said about women drivers.” 

“Except I have to go back to the safehouse and get another fuel cell,” she said, grimacing as she studied the readings on the pad she held. 

“Why – does Norman use Chinese knock-offs?” 

“No, but the cloak alone drains a lot of power when the glider is moving, which is why it’s used sparingly. Between that, the weapons this one is carrying, the speed I had to kick it into, and carrying your fat ass, I’m on reserves. I also want to get it on the rack and run a diagnostic to make sure it didn’t suffer any real damage. I remember what happened with Norman’s glider last year at the Gershwin.” 

“Do you hear yourself talking, Elphie? That didn't even sound like you - except for insulting my ass,” Spider-Man noted with a combination of surprise, sarcasm, and genuine concern. _Osborn, you bastard, what else did you put in her head waiting for the right moment?_

The look on her face suggested she was thinking the same thing. _No - I have to stay focused on helping Peter stop these bastards and save Kris. I can’t afford to worry about what else Osborn did to me_. 

  
After replacing the glider's fuel cells and returning to the tower, Spider-Man directed her towards a floor in the middle of the building. “Let's go inside here. My spider sense isn’t going off, at least for the moment. Blasting a hole through one of the windows would likely set off security and fire alarms and alert them someone had broken into the building, so we’ll have to do this with a little more subtlety.” 

As if on cue, she pulled out what looked like a small pen from one of her belt's compartments. It was a pinpoint laser which she used to cut a circular opening in the glass large enough for the glider and its occupants to coast in. 

“Wow - you wouldn’t also happen to have some shark repellant in there would you?” 

“What?” 

“Guess you didn’t see that particular superhero movie. This is my part.” 

After she completed cutting, she angled the glider so Spider-Man could adhere both hands to the glass and push out the cut segment. He gently set it down, rolled it out of the way, then lept in through the new opening, followed by the glider and its pilot. Since the building was still unoccupied, the condo was empty. Spider-Man let out a soft whistle, sat down on one of the luxurious couches, pulled the laptop from the satchel slung over his shoulder, and placed it on the coffee table. Idina sat beside him as he inserted the flash drive and logged into the computer with the password “accidentally” left taped on the screen. 

“Idina, thanks for your help. Go on and get out. I’ll take it from here.” 

“ _Excuse me?_ ” she asked in disbelief. 

“Get back on the glider and get the hell out of here. This is _my_ job now. I'm doing the rest of this alone.” 

“My ass you are! I’m going with you, Peter.” 

“Dammit, Idina, this isn’t pulling someone out of a wrecked car. There are bad guys here – bad guys with guns who won’t hesitate to blow your head off.” 

“I’ve fought bad guys before. Osborn’s people taught me some things, back before I realized what had happened to me. And when those men tried to kidnap Kris and me, I took them all down, _by myself_.” 

“ _Punks,_ Idina. You put down punks who dragged their knuckles on the ground as they walked and didn’t expect a woman your size to pack a wallop. You did that, and tussled with Osborn’s fighters, when you were _Adele_ – the personality Osborn created for you. “Adele” didn’t have Idina’s neuroses or insecurities, or worry about her son. "Adele" was a fighter, her sole purpose for existing. “Idina” is a far more complicated and emotional personality who will let things cloud her judgment and distract her. And who told me just a few days ago she couldn’t put on the costume and help out because of her son? I should _never_ have asked you to come with me to Times Square. It was irresponsible of me and I’m sorry. Look, these people set New York on fire without giving a shit who got hurt or killed. They're not going to underestimate you if you show up in that costume and they certainly won’t hesitate to kill you. If I have to I’ll knock you out and put you back on that glider. I’m sure it knows its way back to Oscorp Tower or your safehouse – which is better for you than here.” 

“So what was all that bullshit back at the police station about trusting me and needing my help?” 

“That was to keep Watanabe from tossing you out on your ass.” 

“Well then you’re a goddamn hypocrite, with all your talk about power and responsibility. These people attacked and threatened my world, too, Peter! And someone I care about is in danger! I’m afraid to let my son back into Manhattan as long as these bastards are here! And as you suggested earlier – what’s to prevent them from taking this show on the road if we don’t stop them now? So go ahead, Peter, knock me out and put me on the glider and send me home, because that’s the _only_ fucking way you’re going to get rid of me. 

“But before you do, hear me out. I know you're worried about me. I know you're worried about Walker, because you know what it’s like to lose a parent at an early age. And I also know some of this is chivalrous macho bullshit that can be endearing in _very_ small doses. I don’t know if you'll understand, but I've been haunted the last two years by the vulnerability I’ve felt, the lack of control over my own life. I was powerless to save my marriage because I was powerless to stop my husband from fucking other women. And both the Jackal and Norman took control of my life from me, the Jackal by kidnapping and nearly killing me, and Norman by brainwashing and changing me. But, _this_ is _my_ choice to be here, Peter. This is my chance to take part of my life back. Please respect me enough to understand my decision and allow me to face the consequences of it.” 

Spider-Man dropped his head and sighed heavily. “Idina, if anything, _anything at all_ happened to you, I just don’t think I could lose…and the guilt would eat me alive.” 

“You want to know something, Peter? It isn’t always about you. That’s part of your problem.” 

“So you’re ready to charge in there and risk your life on a gamble with no guarantee of survival?” 

“Fuck no I’m not! I’m fucking scared to death! I’m scared because I might get killed and leave my little boy behind. If I survive, but get found out, would my family be in danger and hounded by the media? Would Taye try to take Walker from me? I’m also scared I’ll do something that will get Kristin hurt or killed. But I'm even more scared that if I do _nothing_ , and she gets hurt or killed, or this tower comes crashing down because you didn't have help, or if something happens to…it will torture _me_ for the rest of _my_ life. I would always wonder if I had done something, would things have turned out differently? And you know all about that feeling, don’t you, Peter Parker? You know better than _anyone_ the consequences of not acting.” 

After a pause, Idina softly asked, "You go through this every day of your life, don't you Peter?” 

“Yeah, pretty much.” 

“How do you cope with it?” 

“I don’t – at least not very well. But, like you said, I learned the hard way that regardless of how many failures I’ve had, and I’ve had too many to count, the failure to _act_ will always haunt me the most.” 

“Can I ask a favor, Peter?” 

“I’m not loaning you money.” 

She pulled a folded piece of paper from one of her belt compartments. “It’s a letter to Walker. When I was waiting for you at the safehouse earlier today, I wrote it quickly. I wanted to explain to him what I’ve done and why. Can you see he gets it if something happens to me?” 

“Idina, I won't _let_ anything happen to you. Besides, I'd think that's a job for his father or someone else in your family.” 

“I’m not sure how Taye would react. He might be so angry with me, thinking I did something irresponsible when I should have been with our son. I’d probably feel the same way if he got killed playing superhero. And only you would truly know what happened anyway. Walker looks up to _you_ , Spider-Man. Outside of his father, and well, Bruce Lee, you’re his hero. He might take it better from you. But no more trips to the top of the Empire State Building – you got that?” 

“He ratted me out, huh?” 

“Damn right. He knows better than to keep things from his momma. And Peter? My _friends_ call me Dee.” 

“Is that with one “e” or two?” 

She rolled her eyes. 

“Actually, there’s a more important reason why I can’t take that letter.” 

“What’s that?” 

“I don’t have any pockets.” 

At first, she thought this was another joke, but after taking a quick glance - sure enough – no pockets anywhere on the costume. 

“What the hell kind of superhero costume comes without pockets? What idiot designed it?” 

“Hey, I was 15 years old!” 

“That explains a lot. Why don’t you at least wear a belt or something?” 

“I couldn’t find one with a big-ass spider buckle.” 

“You’ve had all of these years to make changes! You’re saying this is the same version you started with?” 

“It’s my brand! Besides, you never know when a new costume will turn out to be a soul-sucking alien parasite that becomes a super villain in its own right!” 

“Why does this feel like an argument I'd have with my son? Except _he's_ more mature.” 

“C'mon, we’ve got work to do. Let’s take a look at this thing,” he said as their attention focused on the laptop screen displaying the building's penthouse floor layout. 

“The upper floor is _one_ unit?” she asked incredulously. 

“Welcome to lifestyles of the one percent. You know, the people you hang out with during Oscar ceremonies and Washington DC Correspondents dinners.” 

“You’re not funny. _This_ – this is monstrous. If I had $100 million this sure as fuck isn’t how I'd spend it.” 

“So how many millions _do_ you have?” 

“None of your goddamn business.” 

“Yeesh. Touchy little one percenter ain’t ya? We have over 8,000 square feet of living space, 6 bedrooms, 7 bathrooms. Wow. If I had this joint, I’d _never_ need to clean the bathroom. Whenever I dirtied one up to the point I couldn’t stand it anymore, I’d just shut the door and use the next one. There's a library, a wine cellar, and a 14-seat dining room. According to that guy you made squeal more than Ned Beatty in _Deliverance_ there are 15 terrorists left. We know two are on the roof, leaving 13 on the floor. He didn’t know which floors the explosives were on, which doesn’t surprise me. Some of the 9/11 hijackers didn't have that entire game plan, either. But as he said, jet fuel and explosives are lined along the south support struts of three floors. When the explosives are armed, the fuel will burn, melt the supports, and send the tower toppling over a quarter mile of Manhattan. My spider sense won’t be able to pinpoint their location until the devices are armed, but they have to be in this lower quartile somewhere. If I thought we had time we could probably find them, but we don’t, which is why we have to end this before they arm them. The configuration is literally a perfect square, with six 10’ by 10’ windows on each side, and the ceilings are over 12 feet high. Kristin is here in the living room, in the Southeast corner. I wondered why they had her tied up even though there’s nowhere she can go." 

“Besides the fact she can piss people off just by opening her damn mouth.” 

“Oh, look who's talking. Let’s remember _she’s_ the hostage here? Unlike an open observation deck, for example, where you could keep watch with a minimum number of people, this place has a lot of rooms, a lot of blind spots, which works to our advantage, at least initially. We can split up and pick them off one by one and reduce their numbers before they get wise.” 

“How are we going to get up there?” 

“The old fashioned way, up one of the elevator shafts. There’s two private elevators, one for the owner of this Taj Mahal in the sky, and a service elevator. The private elevator almost dumps you right into the living room where the action is, so we’ll have to take the service elevator shaft. My spider sense will let me know if someone’s directly outside the door. All of the elevators have likely been locked at the top floor as another way of ensuring no one else makes their way up." 

“Unless you can fly or climb walls.” 

“Give the girl a cookie. We’ll go up the private elevator shaft, and once we reach the bottom of the locked elevator, you’ll pull out your little laser and cut through the bottom.” 

“Shouldn’t we go after Kris first when we get there? Get her out of harm’s way?” 

“I thought about that, but we first have to ensure they don’t set off the explosions that will topple the tower. We'll pick off the guys patrolling the perimeter so when we hit the room where they’ve got Kristin, there won't be any reinforcements to call. We have to move quickly because they're likely in constant contact with each other. More than one doesn’t check in they’ll know something’s up. When we get to the living room, I’ll handle the goon squad, and _you_ get our damsel in distress out of there. Then the two of you are getting on your glider and flying the hell away from here.” 

“I thought we’ve been through this. I’m not leaving you behind.” 

“Hopefully we’ll reduce their numbers to where I can handle them with one arm tied behind my back. And one last thing...no one dies. Not even any of these bastards. Rough 'em up by all means, but we _don’t_ kill. It’s what distinguishes us from Osborn or Frank Castle.” 

“What kind of person do you think I am?” she asked, genuinely offended at what she believed he was implying. “I’m Jewish, a New Yorker, a gay icon, was in a mixed marriage, have a bi-racial child, I voted for Obama and I’m voting for Hillary. I’m the definition of a bleeding heart liberal.” 

“I’m not suggesting anything – I just…oh hell, let’s go.” 

  
The terrorist patrolling the dining room area, watching for any activity through the large windows, felt a gentle tap on his shoulder, and nonchalantly turned around. The last thing he saw before lights out was a green fist. Unconscious before hitting the floor, he missed the greeting from the voice attached to the fist. 

"Trick or treat, motherfucker." 

  
The terrorists began transmitting from the tower’s penthouse after hacking into the local broadcasting stations. The leader stood in front of the camera, with some of his compatriots gathered in the room, leaving their stakeout positions, to partake in the festivities. 

"Citizens of New York...I'll make this brief. For the last 40 years, crimes have been committed against the working people of this city, but perhaps none more egregious than the one of displacement. Gentrification is not about improving the quality of life of the people in our communities, but to drive them out because they are considered "undesirables" in the eyes of the elite, and to give the One Percent more than it already has. The message sent is that you can pour your lifeblood into backbreaking work, prepare our meals, wait on us in restaurants, fix our streets, chauffeur us, pick up our garbage, clean out our toilets, but _you can't live here!_ You don't belong in OUR New York. 

"In Medieval times, towers were erected to separate royalty and feudal overlords from the rest of the population during times of plague and suffering. Not only did it serve its literal function effectively, the protection of the elite, but it also made the symbolic point of who was considered superior, and more worthy to survive. 432 Park Avenue is the embodiment of this philosophy. So - not only are we going to remove it from the earth, we are also going to consecrate the ground upon which it stood.

“And of course, when one wants to cleanse the ground and consecrate it, there has to be a sacrifice, a _blood_ sacrifice.” 

Kristin was removed from the lounge chair and placed on the piano bench, now in view of the camera. She was still tightly taped and resisting as much as possible, requiring gunmen on each side to hold an arm. After the leader, now holding a large knife, walked behind her, he grabbed her chin and held it tightly as he lowered the blade. Although not willing to go down without a struggle, between her bonds and her stature, she could do little more than squirm and let out several high-pitched cries muted by the gag. 

But before the blade did its dirty work, a thin web line attached itself to it and yanked it from her captor’s hand straight up into the air as a voice rang out to the watching world: 

“Ladies and gentlemen, we interrupt this broadcast to bring you an ass kicking!” 

Several rounds of compressed gas hit the floor, creating a substantial amount of smoke, and the screen went blank. Two web lines shot out, gummed up the weapons held by two of the terrorists and pulled them out of their hands. Two others holding Kristin were struck in the head, releasing her as they fell. The leader grabbed one of his fallen comrade's weapons and began firing at the ceiling where just a moment before a red and blue figure was attached, but it was gone. He looked for his captive and cursed when he noticed that _she_ had disappeared as well. 

  
While profoundly grateful for the rescue, Kristin still had to admit, sitting in a tufted lounge chair, even taped tighter than a mummy, was more comfortable than being carried over someone’s shoulder, bouncing with each step, as they zig zagged through hallways. That particular discomfort finally ended when they entered one of the large bedrooms. Her rescuer slammed the door and gently placed her on the floor next to the bed in front of one of the 10' by 10' windows. 

Kristin’s eyes were wide open in amazement as she tried processing the unfolding events, her own inexplicable participation, and the irony that only a few days ago she was talking about this “Goblin Queen” character with Idina. Now, that costumed character was here in the flesh, risking her own life, as was Spider-Man, coming to her rescue. She had never been this close to one of New York's costumed people, and this wasn't a second or third hand tale about their _alleged_ heroics. 

"Are you alright?" the masked woman asked and Kristin nodded. Although the voice was distorted, Kristin still detected more concern in the woman's tone than she would have expected from someone who had rescued a random, although famous, stranger. Despite the mask’s features, including the pointed ears, and the larger, more sharply defined nose and eyebrows, Kristin felt oddly at ease with this woman, for reasons she couldn't fathom at the moment. 

Idina flashed back to that night at the Gershwin, as she again realized safety was certain if she abandoned Spider-Man. She stood against Norman Osborn because she wasn't leaving a man to die who was only in that predicament because he had saved her life. This time, her feelings were more complicated, particularly with another person's life at stake. She could quickly fly Kristin out and beyond the evacuation point to safety, then return. Spider-Man would order her to do just that. But the time spent leaving the building might not only make the difference in whether Spider-Man himself survived, but whether or not the tower came crashing down, which would result in the loss of substantially more lives. 

Unaware of the character's inner turmoil, Kristin watched as she knelt and pulled a bat shaped blade from a green satchel slung over her shoulder, then used it to cut through the tape binding Kristin's wrists to her thighs, and her arms to her chest. If Idina had time, she would have relished the opportunity to rip the tape off Kristin's mouth just to listen to her howl, but this was not the appropriate moment. 

“Here,” the woman said, pressing the blade, which could be gripped in the center without cutting oneself, into Kristin’s hand. "Finish cutting yourself loose. I’m not letting that pajama wearing clown hog all the credit. I've dealt with that sort of thing way too much in the past. Sit there and stay the hell out of our way and we’ll come back and get you when this is over.” The costumed woman jumped to her feet and exited the room. 

Idina smirked at her joke, knowing Kristin would be clueless about its true meaning. While loathe to admit it, she now understood Peter's delight in his own bad puns. Not only did it distract and irritate his enemies, and help him cope with what was often a grim situation, it was also his means of laughing at a world that didn’t always understand and appreciate him. Besides it wasn’t any of Kristin’s damn business why she was really leaping back into the fray when common sense told her to bail the hell out. 

_Shit! The guys on the roof!_ She exclaimed to herself upon seeing two men exit the small corridor near the mechanical room, where a door led to the roof. They were focused on reaching the living room and thus far hadn't seen her. 

_Spider-Man must be kicking ass. That, and us thinning the herd earlier, they called in what reinforcements they could. I can't let them get there._ She quickly reached into her satchel. 

“Hey motherfuckers!” she yelled at the top of her voice, which stopped the men in their tracks and they turned toward her. She hurled a pumpkin bomb to the floor in front of them, which upon exploding unleashed gas and sufficient concussive force to knock them out. Jumping over their prone forms, she arrived at living room where Spider-Man, having finished off the rest of the group, now had the leader by the collar, demanding to know where the explosives were located. 

“Fuck you, Spider-Man, you're too late! I already armed them! In fifteen minutes this tower comes down like a tree in the forest, leaving a scar in the city for years to come!" 

Spider-Man looked at Idina and threw the leader to the floor. “What the hell are you doing here? Take Kristin, get on your glider and get out!” 

“Where are _you_ going?!” she shouted as he ran past her, panic rising in her voice. 

“I’m going back down the way we came – the elevator shaft! Now that the bomb's armed my spider sense should tell me where it is!” 

“What makes you think you can stop it?!” 

“I have to try!” he yelled as he disappeared into the private service corridor. 

_He never thought of himself and his own safety for a second. He'll either stop it - or die trying. If he thought throwing himself on it like it was a hand grenade would be the only way to save everyone, he'd do that without hesitating._

She turned her attention toward the terrorist leader who was scrambling to reach a weapon on the floor. She grabbed him by the collar before he could re-arm himself, and pulled him up to face her. 

“You bastard!” she screamed, punching him with her left fist. She could have easily disabled him and fled with Kristin, but she wanted a piece of this son of a bitch first. She wanted it for Times Square and every other place attacked, for all of the people hurt or killed, for that girl in East Harlem, for Kristin, and for the brave and selfless man whom she just might have witnessed rushing towards his own death. She knocked out some teeth and bloodied his face, but kept him conscious to get in another lick or two for spite's sake before leaving the building. 

"If Spider-Man dies stopping that thing," she said, almost snarling as she held the man by his collar. "I'll make sure you fucking join him!" 

Then she heard a loud crack and a millisecond later something slammed her right shoulder blade with enough power to stagger her and force her to relinquish her hold on the terrorist leader. She grit her teeth to avoid screaming out in pain and turned around. It was one of the men from the roof, whom she thought she incapacitated earlier with the pumpkin bomb, standing approximately fifteen feet away holding a weapon. He fired again, and the next round connected just under her breasts, sending her sprawling to the floor. Her chest stung, her vision was blurred and she wanted to vomit. 

_My chest! I can barely breathe!_

As she tried to stand again, the back end of the weapon came down hard on her skull, flattening her against the floor. The reinforced skullcap protected her head from splitting open, but now, in addition to her chest and back screaming in agony, her head was pounding and she was almost unconscious. _Careless. Just fucking careless! Norman was right! I should have made sure they were down for good!_

“Hell of an outfit you got there,” the shooter said. "To take those hits, it's gotta be better than Kevlar.” He knelt down beside her and rolled her onto her back. "You’re tough, I'll give you that, but not tough enough.” 

“Jesus Christ, just leave her,” she heard another voice, which she recognized as the leader's. “They’re all dead anyway. There’s no way that wall crawling fuck is smart enough to defuse those explosives, so let’s go!” 

“What about the others? We're just leaving them behind?” 

“No time. They knew the risks.” 

“Go ahead. I’ll be right behind you. She rung my bell with some fucking Halloween toy, so I got a personal matter to resolve.” The leader hurried away and the shooter returned his attention to the prone Idina. 

“Too bad I don’t have time to take off that whole costume and help myself, so I’ll just settle for seeing what your face looks like under that mask.” Idina felt his fingers move along her neckline, searching for the fold in the mask. “And then, we'll see what it looks like after firing a couple of high powered rounds into it.” 

As consciousness faded, the only comfort Idina had was she probably wouldn’t feel the bullets rip through her skull. 

  
**Next in Chapter 11 – Flashes From a Life I’ve Just Begun** – I couldn’t bring myself to kill off Idina in the previous story. Have I gotten any bolder in the interim? I guess the fact that she ended up still going on her tour answered that question. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have to admit, I gave in to _so_ many comic book tropes in this chapter.
> 
> Still not really happy with my bad guys or their motives. Part of the lead bad guy’s narration was very loosely taken from a story Spike Lee told about how his old neighborhood was gentrified, and the new neighbors called the cops on his father, who was playing his music a bit too loud for their liking.
> 
> The plans of the penthouse of 432 Park Avenue are online, if you're so inclined, although I presume it will change to suit its upcoming occupant.
> 
> To give credit where it is due, much of the lead terrorists' monologuing came from a Fortune magazine article entitled "The House That Inequality Built," http://www.fortune.com/2014/11/24/432-park-aenue-inequality-wealth/
> 
> And yeah, it’s convenient what Idina has in her utility belt isn’t it?


	11. Flashes From a Life I've Just Begun

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Does Idina save Kristin? Does she even save herself? Does Spider-Man keep the tallest building in New York from crashing to the ground? Do I ask any more questions with obvious answers?

  
She and Death had performed this dance before. 

Spider-Man was rushing her to the hospital after the Gershwin's collapse and her plunge into Central Park Lake. She was going into shock, having suffered substantial blood loss, and her life was ebbing. In seemingly her dying moments, she was overwhelmed with images and feelings, mostly of Walker, her parents, her sister, even Taye. But she didn’t _hear_ anything except Spider-Man’s voice, probably because the bastard never shut up. As a result, the images in her mind were influenced by Spider-Man's rambling. 

But the wall crawler wasn’t here now. Without his narration, her subconscious wandered freely and haphazardly, now with sounds accompanying the memories. She always thought if her life _were_ to pass before her eyes it would at least unfold in chronological order, but everything was unleashed in a scattershot fashion, her mind subsequently rearranging and segmenting. It was impossible to tell if it was unfolding in real time, or within an instant. 

She was even going to fuck up dying.

First the highs: 

_“Idina, it's Michael Grief. How’d you like to be Maureen?”_

_“Taye Diggs. What was that name again? Eye-Dina?”_

_“Dee, Joe Mantello called - you got the part! You're Elphaba!”_

_“I now pronounce you man and wife.”_

_“And the Tony goes to – Idina Menzel for Wicked!”_

_“Our son is gorgeous, Dee. I’m so proud of you, my beautiful warrior…”_

“ _Ma-muh_.” 

_“Let it go, let it go, can’t hold it back anymore…”_

Then the lows: 

_“Girls, there's no easy way to say this. Your mother and I are getting a divorce.”_

_“Dee, I’m sorry, but the label is dropping you. Your album just isn't selling.”_

_“I’m not renewing. I’ve been doing this gig for three years and I’ve had enough. I can’t take the extra drama anymore. You want to be the star? Fine! I’m leaving the show, Dee. You can have it all to yourself now.”_

_“If you weren’t such a fucking head case and kept your ass home with our son, maybe I wouldn’t go out looking! You **really** want a divorce this time? Where do I sign?”_

And last year’s events which spun her life into another dimension entirely: 

_“Uh-dina Menzel! I have so wanted to meet you!”_

_“You’ll either break your neck or strangle – I don’t care how you die.”_

_“Hi – I’m the Amazing Spider-Man! Will you sign my Playbill? Oooh, you don’t look so good.”_

And what would a life flashing before one's eyes be without the absurd? 

_“You are the most insensitive person ever! How dare you keep on singing when my uncle’s having a heart attack!”_

_“The wick-ed-ly-tal-en-ted one and only A-dele Da-zeem.”_

Finally, as the light dimmed: 

_”I love you too, Momma.”_

_No_. 

_**NO!**_

_**This is NOT how it's going to end!**_

She took a deep, painful breath and stirred as the light grew brighter. But would she recover before her brains were blasted all over the floor? _Fucking Spider-Man would say something like “wouldn’t be much to clean up, then.”_

Yet what she heard next _wasn’t_ a blast, but rather curses and howls from the man leaning over her. 

Slowly lifting her head, she blinked her eyes, and what came into focus was – _**Kristin**_? The little blonde stood next to Idina's flailing would-be assassin, tape dangling from her ankles, thighs, and hair. The razor bat Idina left for her to cut herself loose had been plunged into the man’s back. As he cursed, he reached behind and pulled out the bat. 

_What the - ? Kris? NO! Get out of here!_

He turned to Kristin and targeted her with his weapon. She hadn't been strong enough to incapacitate him, and although turning to run, had no chance of escaping the fatal blast coming her way. 

But she didn’t need it, having provided Idina time to gather her wits and fire a burst from one of her gloves, slamming her shooter in the face with a painful high voltage shock.

“Fuck! You bitch!” He screamed, dropping his weapon. While staggered, he still wasn't felled. Despite her back, chest, and head all protesting in unison, she rose and lept at the gunman, tackling him to the floor. She knew her survival, and Kristin's, depended on following Osborn's Law, no matter how repulsive a concept. Her first punch across his face, while breaking his nose and spraying blood, failed to knock him out as his eyes remained open and he lifted his head. A second, weaker punch sprayed more blood, and his eyes becamed increasingly glazed. Number three would have to count because she didn't have enough left for number four. Inertia more than effort brought her fist down on his face once again, but it was enough. His eyes closed and he lay unconscious. Breathing heavily and painfully, she attempted to stand, but before rising halfway dropped to the floor and landed on her back, staring at the ceiling. Stars and flashes continued sparking before her eyes, but at least she only heard voices _outside_ her head, rather than inside. 

“Oh my god! Are you alright!? Are you alright!?” Kristin frantically yelled as she ran and knelt at her side. 

" _Kris?_ " came a weak, barely audible, tortured rasp. Fortunately, Kristin was pre-occupied with concern over her savior's survival rather than pondering why the Goblin Queen addressed her with a familiarity she shouldn't possess. 

_I’m going to pass out. No, I can’t. I don't know if Spider-Man can defuse the bombs. I’ve got to get Kris and myself out of here_. Was this how Peter felt that night at the Gershwin after Norman’s attack on top of everything else? How many times has he felt like this over the years? How often did it run through his mind the easiest thing would be to simply not get back up, but close his eyes and call it a life? _But Peter **always** gets back up. And goddammit, **so do I**_. 

Idina moaned, and slowly rolled over, propping her elbows under her. 

“Keep your panties on,” she muttered weakly, screaming _”Fuck!”_ as she forced herself up on her knees. _I hurt so fucking badly_. She took several deep breaths, her chest painfully resisting each one, and slowly stood. Kristin wrapped her arms around one of Idina’s, steadying her as she rose. 

“We have to leave _now_ ,” Idina said in between gasps. “If Spider-Man can’t defuse that bomb in time,” she continued, sliding her finger under a glove, pressing a button to summon the glider. 

“Oh ye of little faith!” a boisterous voice rang throughout the floor. 

Her head snapped up as she saw the webslinger walk toward them with a haughty gait, and even through the pain that hasty action caused, her face still broke into a smile, which she quickly stifled. 

“Normally your lack of confidence in my bomb defusing abilities would hurt my feelings. But, I understand since you've never met anyone this handsome and brilliant before. Such is my curse. Well, I see you cleaned house while I was gone,” referencing the additional fallen gunman. He placed a hand on her other arm to help Kristin steady her, leaned over and gently whispered. 

“Are you alright? Do I need to get you to the Night Nurse?” 

She shook her head, grimacing. “You stopped it?” She asked weakly.

“Damn right I did! I also called Captain Watanabe and in a few minutes police choppers will be here. They’ll put these clowns where they belong and scour the rest of the building for any potential surprises, but it's over.” 

“Spider-Man…I-I don’t know what to say,” Kristin said, her eyes watering. 

“Are _you_ OK?” he asked Kristin - not looking at her directly, as he primarily focused on Idina. 

“I’m fine. Thank you so much.” She looked at Idina. “Both of you." 

"Guess we costumed lunatics aren't so -" Idina said turning to Kristin, but then she saw the large welt on Kristin’s face. 

“What’s wrong?” the blonde asked. While the Goblin mask's lenses didn't allow one to see the wearer's eyes, its construction and close fit betrayed emotions, and the Goblin Queen's anger was unmistakeable. 

_“Which son of bitch did that?”_ Idina asked, more like a command than a question. 

“The one that left right after you were shot, the leader of the group. That one!” Kristin exclaimed. “The one getting away!” Spider-Man and Idina turned in the direction Kristin pointed, and through one of the windows saw the leader escaping via jet pack. 

“Looks like a hero’s work is never done,” Spider-Man said. “You ladies wait here while I…” 

“No!” Idina shouted as the glider came to her and she broke free of Spider-Man’s and Kristin’s grasps to step on it. 

“Wait! What the hell – ?“ Spider-Man began to protest, but the glider was already streaming down the hall to the dining room. He bolted after her, followed by Kristin, but by the time they reached the room Idina had already blasted holes through the windows and was airborne over the city. 

“Sonofabitch!” Spider-Man yelled. “I’ve got to go after her. Why would she have taken off just like that...?” As he turned and looked at Kristin he got his first look at the welt on her face. 

“Oh dear, _that’s_ why. _**NOT**_ good.” 

“I’m fine, Spider-Man, it’s sore, but..” 

“Uh -that's not what's worrying me. No offense.” 

“Spider-Man, she can barely stand. You’ve got to go after her before she gets hurt even worse.” 

“It's not _her_ health I’m worrying about at the moment. Care to take a little ride?” 

  


Obviously, Kristin’s injuries did not compare with the magnitude of the destruction and murders committed by the group, led by this man. But seeing that the bastard hit a woman less than five feet tall who could have been subdued without harm, Idina snapped out of her pain induced stupor, supplied with the rush of Goblin Formula-augmented adrenaline she needed. This additional extra cirricular activity was only going to exacerbate tomorrow's physical agony, but right now she could count on one hand with five fingers left over how many fucks she gave. 

He soon came into her sights, heading into Lower Manhattan, to what destination she had no idea, but it didn’t matter. He could fly into the bowels of Hell and she would be right behind him. 

_I’ll bet my batshit crazy mad scientist is better than your batshit crazy mad scientist_ , she thought, ramping up the glider's gyros and rapidly closing the distance. Once again she cursed the wasted genius of Norman Osborn. _I could fire on him and blow him out of the sky, but that would probably kill him. He might deserve it, but that’s not what Spider-Man would want – and that’s not a line I want to cross either. I just hope the idea I have doesn’t rip my arms out of their sockets._

As she drew closer, the terrorist leader glanced behind him and noticed her pursuit. He began to turn, weave and alternatively ascend and descend attempting to lose her. While increasingly comfortable with the glider, she knew it still didn’t have the maneuverability of a single man with a jet pack and he could fly through spaces she couldn’t. She had to do something _now_. 

Closing the gap, she pulled a fighting stick from her back, swung it and pressed a button near the top. A small grappling hook attached to a thin line shot out and wrapped itself around the terrorist’s chest. It was a failsafe Osborn built into the Goblin’s arsenal in the event the glider lost power while in the air. Firing off the grappling hook would allow one to latch onto a building or other artifice. 

_Oh fuuuuuuccccckkkkk!!!!!_ her mind screamed as the glider suddenly jerked to the right as her target’s momentum in that direction pulled her along. The magnetic boots kept her firmly in the glider’s stirrups and while her muscles painfully stretched, her arm stayed attached to her body. The substantially greater propulsion of the glider soon overcame the jet pack's momentum, but by the time she grabbed onto the stick with her other hand and was pulling _him_ instead of vice versa, they had passed Battery Park and were over open water. 

_Oh no, I am NOT going down in the water again. But I've got another stupid idea. Good thing it's afterhours,_ she thought as she observed Ellis Island directly ahead. She gritted her teeth and tucked her head into her chest as the glider crashed through one of the large windows and into the attraction's Great Hall. 

_Oh shiiiiiiiiiiiit!!!!!_

In a move with more nerve than sense, as she slowed the glider down, she flew around one of the large rectangular pillars supporting the walkway in the Great Hall, wrapping the line holding the terrorist leader around the pillar. After releasing the stick, she landed the glider and stepped off. By this time, her target had shut down the jet pack and dropped to his knees on the floor, struggling with the line wrapped around his chest. Idina reached him, ripped the pack from his body and tossed it aside so he couldn't re-activate it. She pulled out the small laser again and severed the grapple line from the pillar. 

"You crazy fucking bitch!" he coughed and panted while still on his knees, trying to recover from the dizzying whirlwind he had been on for the last minute. "I'll kill you!" he screamed at her as she stood over him. 

"You can't even stand up right now you sonofabitch, and you're gonna kill me? Tell you what..." she backed up, raised her left hand and motioned with her fingers signaling him to approach her. “I'll stand right here and wait. You wanna hit someone? Here I am. Show me how fucking tough you are when you’re not hitting a woman less than five feet tall and a hundred pounds.” 

He sprang to his feet, rushed toward Idina and began swinging upon planting his feet. He was skilled, but she effortlessly blocked each punch he threw with one of her forearms. After his last swing and miss, she popped him in the nose with her left fist, enough to break it and stagger him. Before he recovered she slammed him in the face with her right fist and sent him sprawling to the floor. The day's events had taken their toll and her strength was fading fast, or he would have been unconscious already. She nearly made a fatal mistake earlier playing around and drawing out a fight. It wasn't happening again. The next time he went down he wasn't getting back up. 

“Get up, motherfucker, so I can knock you down again.”

“You’re fucking crazy!” He exclaimed, spitting out a mouthful of blood and dislodged teeth.

“And you’re a goddamn coward!"

She reached down, picked him up by the collar and hit him again. While he was still conscious when he fell to the floor, he wasn't getting up without assistance. And Idina wasn't done with him.

"Don't pass out on me yet, motherfucker!" She pulled him up and slammed him against a pillar, keeping him at eye level. "You sick fuck! You murdered innocent people, _children_ who had nothing to do with your grudge! Why shouldn't I break your fucking neck right now?” 

Normally, she would have been appalled hearing those words coming from her mouth, but she was in emotional overdrive, operating almost solely on adrenaline, fueled by hate and anger for this man and what he and his people had done.

“You’re a Green Goblin for Christ’s sake! Goblins aren’t superheroes! They don’t work with Spider-Man! Just who the hell are you?” 

She pulled him closer to her. “ I’m not the goddamn Green Goblin. Don’t you _dare_ call me that!! I’m the motherfucking Goblin Queen!” She slammed him against the pillar again.

“Oh, God,” he murmured, realizing his chances of getting through the evening alive nosedived after calling her a _Green Goblin_. 

“You won’t see Him where you’re going.” 

She put her hand around his neck and began to squeeze. Blood streamed from his mouth and nose, his face was swollen, bruised and discolored. He began to gurgle as Idina took one last breath and …

_No. **Dear God, NO!** I can’t do this_!

She dropped him and he slid down the pillar to the floor, sobbing and choking. 

Still burning with anger and consumed by her inner turmoil, she failed to notice Spider-Man and Kristin approach. They had watched as the Goblin Queen slammed her target against the pillar, then released him to fall to the floor. 

“Why did you bring me?” Kristin whispered to the webslinger. 

“I want her to see you’re OK. She doesn't know we're here yet. Get her attention and tell her you’re OK.” 

“Me? Why don't you just --?” 

“ _Just do it, dammit_!” The intensity of Spider-Man's anger and frustration startled her, but she complied with his demand. 

“Hey! Hello! I’m all right! I’m going to be fine, really! You and Spider-Man, you saved my life! Thank you!” 

Startled, Idina looked in their direction, fists still clenched, additional fury ready to be unleashed with the slightest provocation. However, upon sight of her friends, she began to relax. But, as her anger ratcheted down, other emotions began to take its place. 

“I was done anyway,” she said as she quickly turned and walked away, disappearing around a corner, coming to a halt and leaning against a wall once she was out of sight and earshot of everyone. 

“Yeah, yeah, I’d say you were,” Spider-Man noted as he knelt down and evaluated the terrorist's condition. Satisfied the man did not need emergency attention before the first responders arrived, Spider-Man quickly wrapped him in webbing from head to toe, then walked toward the woman in the black and green costume. He gestured to Kristin to remain where she was as he turned the corner. 

“Elphie?” he said softly, once he was right behind her. 

She didn't acknowledge him, remaining against the wall. Hearing a combination of sniffles and sobs, he walked around to face her as she stared at the floor. 

“Dee?” he asked, using her nickname for the first time. 

“ _I’m not dead yet,_ ” she softly sang rather than spoke. 

“What?” 

“Guess you didn’t see that particular musical.” Still looking down, she continued. “What’s happening to me? I’ve never wanted to hurt people like that before. Never! But those men in the van. This guy. And the things I said to Kris, what I said to you all of those times when you were only trying to help me. I’m out of control. I want to blame Norman, but his stupid Goblin juice didn't do this to me. Like you said about him when he first got his powers – the evil was already there. I’ve always run around like an open wound, trampling over people, driving them away. No matter how much I’ve tried to be someone else, I can’t! And lately I’ve been so hurt, so angry. All I’ve wanted to do is scream at the world, and make other people hurt, too. I'm a goddamn monster. And now that I have this power - ” 

Spider-Man reached under her chin with his forefinger, gently lifting her head upward until they made eye contact. 

“You are _**not**_ a monster. You are, to be honest, one nasty, totally fucked up piece of work. But Dee, you are not a monster.” 

“Oh, look who’s talking about being totally fucked up.” 

“You are – very likely - one of the most intense and emotional people I have ever met, other than crazed supervillains - well, actually maybe even more than a few of those. Not only do you wear your heart on your sleeve, it’s huge, bulging in three dimensions, and threatening to blow apart at any moment. That’s who you’ve always been. That’s who you _are_. But those who _truly_ love you wouldn’t have you any other way. 

“Dee…Let it go.” 

The look on her face went from one of sadness to disbelief. 

“Really? You went there? That's got to be one of the stupidest fucking uses of that line I've ever heard!“ 

“I’m the best at what I do,” he replied with mock pride. 

“Yes. Yes you are, Peter,” she whispered quietly in all sincerity before continuing in a louder voice. “At being the most arrogant, _irritating_ , _**obnoxious**_ pain in the **_ASS_** I've ever known!” 

“Really?” he said, gesturing with his hand as if to point to Kristin's location elsewhere in the building. 

“Hmm. Maybe it’s a tie.” 

He chuckled, then spoke seriously again. 

“Trust me, I’ve been there many, _many_ times over the years. When Uncle Ben died, Gwen’s father, Gwen herself, Jean...not to mention people I’ve literally seen gunned down in the street. I just want to rip those responsible limb from limb. Needless to say, it's hell on the nerves and the social life. 

“Sometimes I think things would be so much easier if I just turned on the world – used this power to – god, I don’t know – take whatever the hell I wanted – take out all of the bad guys permanently, for example. I’d be doing humanity a big favor. Twice I've literally come within another punch or two of killing Norman Osborn and I don’t have to tell you why. You know what I did to Jean's killer. Sometimes, _I_ just want to go on a rampage – right all of the wrongs done not only to me personally, but all the good people out there who keep getting shit on although they’ve not done a damn thing to deserve it.” 

“But you don’t,” her voice barely above a whisper. 

“No, I don’t. And neither would you. When I got here, you had just slammed that guy against the pillar and put your hand around his throat. I considered stopping you, webbing you up. But you had to stop yourself. We each have to face that moment where we make the conscious decision _not_ to use our great power like _that_. You were going to face it one day regardless, whether now, or later. It was going to happen. And I had to let it. 

“True, I wasn’t sure what the Goblin Queen would do, but I had faith _Idina Menzel_ wouldn't cross that line. And you know what? She didn’t disappoint me.” 

Idina felt her eyes welling. “You think more highly of me than I do.” 

“I’d say _you_ need to work on that little problem. Aren’t you always telling your young fans to have better self-images? Might be good for you to take your own advice.” 

“You don’t have much room to talk, you know.” 

“Never said I did.” 

“I can’t believe…I…thank you, Peter.” 

“That’s OK. I was in a similar state of mind a few months ago. A friend of mine talked me through it. Figured I owed her one.” 

She was so damn frustrated right now. She wanted to hug Spider-Man and cry on his shoulder. Of course, he would respond with a dreadfully stupid joke. She wanted to run to Kristin and embrace her and tell her how happy she was that she was OK, that she was so sorry for the way she talked to her and beg her forgiveness. Kris would forgive her, they would both cry and find something sinful to eat, eat far too much of it, watch some mind-rotting TV, and pick up Walker and have a day at the park. 

But proper superhero etiquette was to stand there and say something profound about Truth, Justice, and the American Way. 

Except she had nothing profound to say. 

_Boy, I really suck at this_. 

“So how'd the hell you get here?” she asked, switching to a less emotionally taxing subject. "You can’t web sling over a mile of water. You don’t have a Spider-Boat do you?” 

“Not since I had a rubber duckie to put in it while in the tub. Some dude docked at Battery Park happily gave me and Kristin a ride.” 

“ _Happily?_.” 

“Well, she owes him free tickets to her show, an autographed photo that says "You're the best lover I've ever had," and a selfie with her.” 

“EXCUSE ME! STILL HERE!” An increasingly irritated voice rang out. “YOU GUYS DONE?” 

“Come on, Elphie, let’s get back to Kristin and call it a day.” 

“Stop calling me Elphie.” 

“Right when you stop calling me a dick.” 

“Not gonna happen.” 

“Ditto. Anyway,” Spider-Man suggested as they turned the corner and approached Kristin. "Since the coppers are likely to be here soon to pick up the garbage, you need to make yourself scarce. I’ll turn this guy over to the gendarmes, since I’m an old pro in dealing with them. The Goblin Queen's public relations skills are a bit raw at the moment,” he said gesturing at the groaning thug on the ground. “No one’s going to suggest any of these guys, particularly this little prick, didn’t have a beat down coming, but it's not in your best interest to be taking questions from the cops or media right now.” 

Idina silently nodded. She knew in her current physical and emotional state she wasn't equipped to deal with the police and the media onslaught, ironic considering she had dealt with the media constantly for nearly 20 years. But that was another life. 

“Am I cutting in on something?” Kristin asked. 

“No!” Spider-Man and the Goblin Queen responded simultaneously. 

“Well, not to sound ungrateful, because I am grateful for all you’ve done, but I don’t have any shoes, I don’t have my meds, I’m hurting real bad, I'm worried about my dog, and frankly, I just want to go home. Can you guys hurry this up?” 

Idina pulled two prescription bottles from compartments on her belt and handed them to Kristin. 

“My meds? Where did you get my meds?” 

“A friend of yours took them to the police station when Spider-Man and I were there. I told her I’d give them to you when I saw you.” 

“Her? Who?” 

“There’s a water fountain nearby. You can take something right now.” 

As Kristin did that, Idina looked at Spider-Man and said with a haughty air “Utility belt. Think about it.” 

“Hmmph. You're not fooling me. The _real_ reason you have one is make your gut look flat.” 

Kristin gingerly walked back to the costumed heroes, avoiding blood and other human and material debris on the floor. “Can a girl get a lift home, Spider-Man? _Aaaannd_ maybe you can come for coffee or dinner sometime? I’d like to properly thank you.” 

“Why, Miss Chenoweth, it was my _honor_ to be one of your rescuers today. He bowed to her and turned to Idina. "See? _Instantaneous_ gratitude. Not like certain self-absorbed divas I know who insult and argue with the beloved knight in shining armor. And she’s _definitely_ a lot lighter, too.” 

“Oh, please!” the Goblin Queen said, combining exasperation with rolling eyes, although those weren't visible under the mask. “Get over yourself!” 

“You know, I have an idea," Spider-Man said. "While I try to square things with the cops, why don’t _you_ ,” pointing at Idina, “take Miss Chenoweth home? Or to the hospital? Or where ever she needs to go?” 

“What?” Idina responded. “You’re joking.” 

“On _that thing_?” Kristin asked indignantly as she pointed to the glider. 

“Well, we can’t all come and go by bubble!” Spider-Man exclaimed with a chuckle only to be met by two glares and total silence. “I watched a bootleg not long ago and remembered that line. I thought it would have gotten a bigger laugh, though,” he said after realizing his joke landed flatter than usual. There was no change in the glares or silence. 

“Or any laugh at all.” 

Continued silence. 

“I'll just see myself out. Anyway, statistically speaking, Miss Chenoweth, flying is still the safest form of transportation. Think I saw a guy say that in an old superhero movie once. I’m sure if you’re nice the Goblin Queen will provide you with a complimentary beverage service.” 

“Don’t fucking count on it.” 

“It’s been a long day for her.” 

“It's been a long day for all of us. No thanks, I’ll take the boat. I hate flying. I'd even rather web sling back with you. I might get sick but at least I'll have something hunky to hold onto." 

“I insist,” Spider-Man said. 

“Oh, really? Why?” 

“Well, if you wait for the police or me you're talking hours before you get home. If you go with her - you're talking minutes.” 

"Who says I even want to take her?" Idina asked. 

"Because you're a community minded superhero with a heart of gold and because I'm saying pretty please with sugar on top." 

After more gentle persuasion on both ladies, Kristin finally wrapped her arms around the Goblin Queen’s waist as the two stepped onto the glider.

“Ohhhhhhhhhhh!” Kristin exclaimed. “I’m afraid of heights!” She yelled as the glider rose into the air. 

“Well close your eyes then!” Idina exclaimed while looking over her shoulder at her panicking passenger. 

“Are you sure you can fly this thing safely?” 

“What – you want to see my Learner’s Permit?” 

_Oooooh dear_. Spider-Man thought, watching the glider rise and fly out the hole in the Great Hall window Idina created upon first arrival. _I hope I haven’t made a mistake. I can see the headlines in the Post tomorrow: **Glinda’s Bubble Pops!** or **We Thought Witches Could Fly!** or **Should’ve Taken the Train!** or simply **Cheno Crashes!** or **Cheno Splat!** _

_Damn, that’s fun. I could sit around and think up those all day_. 

“You gotta get me a doctor!” The man on the floor groaned. 

“Would you stop whining? You’re lucky she didn’t cut your balls off with one of her razor bats. _That_ I would have gladly stood by with a tub of popcorn and watched.” 

  
Idina struggled to remain silent on the glider while taking Kristin back to her apartment. After all, it would only be a few minutes. Surely she could suffer in silence for that brief period of time. 

But the blonde would not shut up. 

“This is worse than when one of the drivers gave me a ride at NASCAR! Can’t you slow down?” 

“If I fly any slower the fucking pigeons will pass us.” 

“How do you not get bugs in your teeth doing this?” 

“I eat them as they fly in.” 

”Can’t you keep this thing any steadier? You’re making me sick.” 

“Well, don't throw up on the costume. I just had it dry-cleaned.” 

_Oh my god, does telling stupid jokes come with the costume?_? 

“Are you and Spider-Man seeing each other?” 

“No!” 

“Are you _wanting_ to see him?” 

“No!” 

“Well why not?” 

“None of your fucking business.” 

“Do you know who he is? Is he good looking? Is he gay? Because, you know, he _is_ wearing a skin tight unitard and when he moves just so you can see his ---.” 

“None of your fucking business to all of the above! And I never noticed!” 

“I'll bet. Is he seeing anyone?” 

“Do I look like his secretary? I don’t keep his social calendar for him.” 

“Do you think he’ll mind if I give him a call?” 

“He’s not in the phone book.” 

“Do you know how to reach him?” 

“Oh for fuck’s sake! THAT DOES IT! If you don’t shut up I’m going to drop you while we're still in the air!” 

“Gee, maybe instead of the Goblin _Queen_ they should call you the Goblin _Bitch_! I thought you were a super _hero_.” 

Fortunately, before Idina seriously contemplated dropping Kristin, they arrived at the latter's apartment building and descended to the sidewalk in front. After Kristin stepped off the glider, Idina rotated it to face her. 

“Look, you little blonde bullshitter, there’s only so much of your cutie-pie on steroids act a person can stand! Spidey’s a good man, but he’s fucking stupid when it comes to women. He’s got enough to worry about and he doesn’t need you fucking with his head! Besides, you’re _waaaay_ too old for him.” 

“What the hell do you mean by that? You don’t know me!” Kristin shouted. “Sounds like you’re green in more ways than one, dearie.” 

“Well, I’m certainly not jealous of _you_!” She said a little too forcefully, as if she were trying to convince herself more than Kristin. She then realized she wasn't talking about the Goblin Queen’s relationship with Spider-Man, but Idina Menzel’s long-time relationship with someone else. Before the conversation escalated, the glider rose vertically twenty feet into the air and then jetted off into the sky. _I am getting out of this outfit, taking a shower, loading up on pain pills and getting my boy. And we're going to eat ice cream, play with dinosaurs and watch Bruce Lee movies all fucking day long_. 

As the Goblin Queen took to the air, Kristin shook her head and began walking into her building. 

_Well! She was a piece of work. Spider-Man deserves a medal just for putting up with her. I always thought super **heroes** were supposed to be role models for the kids. And the mouth on that woman! If I didn’t know better, I’d swear she talked and acted just like…_

She stopped dead in her tracks, then spun around wide-eyed, mouth agape, running back to the spot from where the Goblin Queen departed. As the costumed woman became microscopic and disappeared, something weird and unbelievable came to Kristin. She nearly dismissed it due to its sheer absurdity, but prior puzzling events now made perfect sense in the context she had just pieced together. 

“ _ **Ho - Lee – SHIT!!!**_ ” 

  
**Next in Chapter 12 – No Happy Ends – but Friends** Friendships are repaired and good-byes are said.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Not sure how many laws of physics or of "objects in motion" I broke with that scene at Ellis Island. 
> 
> Obviously, I have NO idea how most of the dialogue went in Idina’s “memories,” although I've done some research. The video of her winning the Tony is on You Tube. In an interview, Taye _did_ refer to her admiringly as a “warrior” because she gave birth to Walker _without_ anesthetic (which _definitely_ makes her super powered in some regard). The Kristin quote is a nod to numerous Chenzel stories where Kristin says something similar when telling Idina she's leaving _Wicked_. The comment about singing while someone’s uncle was having a heart attack **IS** a true story she relayed during an interview on a British talk show when she talked about her days as a wedding singer. And of course, there’s no mistaking the Travolta line, probably the most fortuitously beneficial botched name pronunciation ever.


	12. No Happy Ends - but Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Wounds and relationships heal. Good-byes are said.

  
_Two days later and I **still** feel like shit_. 

_And look just as bad_. 

_Time for some changes – starting with the hair_. 

Idina woke up at home with the most important man in her life sleeping soundly next to her. After taking Kristin to her apartment, she flew to the safehouse, called Cara to tell her she would pick Walker up the next day, and passed out on the bed. She wanted to reclaim Walker immediately, but she desperately needed sleep. Besides, she didn't want to alarm Cara or Walker by passing out in front of them, or carelessly allowing them to see how beaten up everything below the neck looked. She also wondered if the Goblin Formula was shutting her body down to enter into a healing mode. Twelve hours of sleep sufficiently rejuvinated her so at least she didn't feel like passing out or throwing up. She switched identities and retrieved Walker. They caught up on some long overdue mother-son bonding, and the following morning she awoke as she had fallen asleep, cuddling with her son. 

Her chest and back ached, and her first few breaths were ragged. The bruises on her ribs were still large and would startle a casual observer, but shrinking. Her headache could be managed with over the counter stuff (a full bottle in one dose, but still OTC). She initially worried about long-term effects, but Peter put her at ease, noting he had suffered far worse and healed relatively quickly. And anything that repaired Norman Osborn's body after his heart was impaled by a heavy chunk of metal moving at a high rate of speed would fix her with much less difficulty. 

It was one of the first mornings without any out-of-the ordinary insanity in _far_ too long. Sure, there was the _usual_ insanity, the fact she was behind on everything related to her tour, including packing, rehearsals, packing, tinkering with the set list, packing, getting movies downloaded to an IPAD for Walker, packing, promotional interviews, packing, etc. However, THAT lunacy, devoid of costumes, superpowers, terrorists, kidnapped friends, bombs, crashing through windows of National Parks, flying through the air on a bat-shaped glider and helping New York pick up the pieces after a major attack – now seemed like heaven. 

And it could still wait yet one more day. She checked in with Heather, letting her know that after devoting all day today to Walker, she would be ready to full bore prep for the tour. She apologized for the last few weeks, but she was much better now and couldn't wait to start again. Heather seemed pleased, telling Idina she felt an energy and vigor that had been lacking for some time. “Maybe because we’re all happy Spider-Man and the Goblin Girl caught those people and this nightmare is over. It almost feels like a holiday, the first time in a while we’re not all worried out of our minds something is going to fall out of the sky or blow up. Enjoy your time with Walker, and I’ll talk to you soon.” 

_You have NO idea, Heather_. 

The “Goblin Girl” nomenclature Heather used was also popular in the media, but she felt it was blatantly sexist. After all, Peter was never called “Spider- _Boy_ ” even when he _was_ a boy crime-fighter. _Then again, Goblin Girl rolls off the tongue a lot better than Goblin Woman. That’s – no. Goblin Queen still seems like an ABBA song or a trick-or-treating tranny. Not that there’s anything wrong with ABBA or a tranny, trick-or-treating or otherwise. Even with superheroes and villains, it’s all about the name and marketing I guess._ Or, as suggested by her would-be suitor in the Financial District, people believed she was younger than she really was, which probably wasn't _that_ bad. 

She resisted the urge to roust Walker and whip up some infamous pancakes in name only, deciding to enjoy the simple pleasure of lounging in bed doing nothing of consequence. After propping up some pillows and turning on the television, she zipped through the channels until stopping at the _Today_ show when she saw a _very_ familiar face chatting with Matt Lauer. 

_Oh look, Kris is on TV. The sky is blue, the grass is green, the sun rises in the east and sets in the west and Kris is on TV. Two days ago the woman was bound, gagged, and had a knife at her throat, and here she is all prim and perky and ready to dazzle the world with more of her corn fed, down on the farm, country girl bullshit. Guess things are back to normal everywhere_. 

“Kristin, thank you for joining us – and so soon after your ordeal,” Lauer began. "First of all, how are you feeling? We all saw what was happening just before Spider-Man burst in and the cameras went dead. Needless to say, the situation looked pretty grim. The fact that you're sitting here with us this morning is nothing less than amazing." 

“Thanks for asking Matt. Well, I'm a little woozy and sore and have my neck brace waiting for me back stage, but you know, the American Airlines Theatre is closed for the week as they make repairs. So, I’ve got plenty of time on my hands and I hate not having anything to do! I gotta do something, don’t I? Besides, I was tied up for awhile and have a lot of energy to burn off. I'm not into that bondage stuff at all, so I was really going crazy.” 

Laughter rippled through the studio and the interview's tone was set. Although Lauer tried asking serious questions, due to network morning television being brief, breezy, and shallow, Kristin had no trouble seizing control of the conversation and making the entire experience seem little more than a typical day on a high-octane action movie set. 

“As we close, Kristin is there anything you’d like to say to the superheroes who rescued you?” 

"Sure, Matt. Hey, Spider-Man!" She held up her thumb and little finger by her face in the simulation of a phone and mouthed “call me.” 

_That’ll be the day – although I wouldn’t put it past him to do just that to piss me off_. 

“You know, he should swing in onstage with me to start the Tony Awards next month. That'd be a heck of an entrance, don’t ya think? It might even top my one as Glinda! And the Goblin Queen could fly Alan in on her glider! Hey! That’s a great idea! Tony producers – get ahold of those two! I wonder if they have agents.” 

“Speaking of the Goblin Queen...she’s the newest superhero in town and has generated a lot of interest, but still so little is known about her. You might have spent more time with her than anyone outside of Spider-Man. What’s she like?” 

“Oh she is one nasty thang, I tell ya.” “Thang” was barely out of her mouth when the studio roared, nearly drowning out “I tell ya.” “And you gotta change that name if you want to sell a lot of toys. Not only that, but remember those body suits superheroes wear hug plenty tight – _just sayin’_.” 

By now the studio's response to Kristin's witticisms was almost Pavlovian. Her face beamed and teeth gleamed while Idina rolled her eyes and facepalmed. 

“One last question – and I ask only because everyone, and I mean _**everyone**_ who heard you were coming on the show begged me. What's with you and Idina Menzel? You two have been in New York at the same time for months and haven't been seen together. Do you _really_ hate each other?” 

“Sorry, Matt, but I've got a lot more interviews today and I've gotta go. Thanks for having me,” which was met with the predictable glee considering what the non-answer implied. 

_Oy_. 

_But at least she’s OK. Her perky, obnoxious, grating personality is a small price to pay to still have her around. Besides, if anyone's going to kill her…I call dibs. But I don't get this. Last year **I** was kidnapped, got the shit kicked out of me and had to lay low afterwards. This year, even though **she** was kidnapped, I’m **still** the one who got the shit kicked out of her and am laying low. Is it me? Or is the superhero business just seriously fucked up_? 

One interview with Kristin was enough and she turned off the television. Still, it wasn’t the saccharine tone of the interviews putting her into a diabetic coma that really bothered her. The drama at 432 Park Avenue continued dominating the media, and she wasn’t ready to relive it, particularly through the perspective of talking heads and loudmouths who didn’t have a clue what really happened. The only people who knew were the terrorists, who lawyered up and weren’t talking, Spider-Man, who wasn’t talking, and herself, who sure as hell wasn’t talking. So that left only – Kris, and she was obviously going to put her spin on it. 

_Besides, I have this reminder right here,_ she thought as she walked to her bedroom dresser, opened a drawer and carefully pulled out the blackened Elsa doll from that day in Times Square. 

Curiously, none of the Ellis Island security footage appeared on TV, or even You Tube, as apparently the cameras were inoperative at the time for unspecified reasons. Strange, but she wasn’t complaining. 

_Just as well. Not sure I want the whole world seeing me with my hands around someone's throat, especially not the Twitter girls_. The cell phone footage, although most of it was distant, of her pursuit and violent take down of the terrorist leader, and her graceless crashing through the window of Ellis Island’s Great Hall, was bad enough. 

She placed the doll back in the drawer and began to peruse a large stack of mail after returning to bed. Among the correspondence was a notice her physician was relocating to Phoenix. 

_Not that I was ever going to see that sonofabitch again. But - Phoenix? Really? Is this another joke of Norman's? If I were the doctor I’d hire someone to start my car in the morning_. 

The doorbell rang, fortunately not loud enough to wake Walker. To her surprise, she was greeted by a large, beautiful, and expensive arrangement of flowers. 

“Did it come with a card?” she asked the delivery person skeptically. “I’m not taking them until I find out who sent them.” _If they're from Norman, they’re going back…shit...just as bad,_ as she read the name “Phil Coulson." The message was “Good job! Hope you’re feeling better today!" Later, the delivery person would talk of not recalling anyone refusing delivery of such an arrangement, and how the recipient wanted to send a reply message, but was told the service didn’t deliver obscene ones. 

Several voice-mails and texts from Kristin had accumulated over the last two days, suggesting a rendezvous. _With all she has going on, Tonys rehearsals and umpteen hundred interviews, why is she so insistent on getting together with me, particularly after ignoring **my** voice-mails and texts? Is a near death experience making her sentimental again? Has she forgiven me? Or does she just want to jump down my throat one last time before I leave on tour?_ Kristin suggested one of The Palm restaurant locations for lunch as The Palm was among her favorites in the city. 

_Well, I'm not going to find anything out by sitting here worrying about it. Might as well accept and be done with it_. 

  


As the babysitter arrived at Idina's apartment on the luncheon date, Kristin texted proposing a new Palm location. Upon seeing the address, Idina almost fired off a nasty response declining the invite, but reconsidered - deciding to suck it up and endure.

“Walker, your sitter’s here, I’m going to see Miss Kristin now,” she told her son as she stopped in the living room where he sat on the floor watching TV. “Give Mommy a kiss,” she said, bending down and puckering up. 

“OK, Mommy. Have a good time,” he replied, returning the kiss. 

“Are you watching more Spider-Man clips on the news again? I thought you’d had enough of him and would be back to watching one of your Bruce Lee movies.” 

“Spidey's still my favorite superhero. Do you think he might take me up more buildings some time?” 

_**OVER MY DEAD BODY!!!**_

“That was just a special one-time thing, honey. Spider-Man’s busy and doesn’t always have time for that. You want him spending his time fighting the bad people don’t you?” 

“Yeah, I guess so. He’s just really cool.” 

“Hmmph. I suppose.” 

“But Goblin Girl, she’s _baaaadaaaasssss.”_

“That’s nice. Wait – _**WALKER! WHAT DID YOU JUST SAY?! ”**_

  


As long as burned out buildings and mountains of rubble weren't within one's line of sight, nothing seemed out of the ordinary in Times Square. The usual hordes still crossed the street en masse whether they had the "walk" light or not, presuming "the other guy" was going to be the one hit by a car. Cabbies honked at everyone, rickshaws carefully maneuvered around organic and inorganic obstacles, bike messengers retained their sociopathic focus, humanity be damned, and tour buses made slow, lumbering hairpin turns as tourists atop them absorbed the sites and sounds of the Big City. Of course, the ruins of the Marquis and the rest of the destruction within Times Square now merited its own stop and narrative. 

The Palm restaurant Kristin selected was within the theater district and known for the Broadway personality caricatures lining its walls – _including_ Kristin and Idina. Ironically, this Palm was literally across the street from the Gershwin's remains. 

_Why this one, Kris? Why?_ She thought while standing at the restaurant's entrance and looking across the street. _It must be “Chenoweth’s Revenge.”_

Then she saw the sign – “Groundbreaking ceremony for the new Gershwin to be held here on - ” and the date, along with “We would like to acknowledge the vital role of Oscorp in making this day possible.” 

_Definitely "Chenoweth’s Revenge."_

“Party?” asked the maître d sitting within the small corner area as Idina turned right upon entering the restaurant. 

“Chenoweth.” 

“And you are - ?” 

Idina opened her eyes wider, taken aback by the question. She’d been here before, her picture was on the wall. Was this guy new or something? She leaned in closer. 

“Idina Menzel - ?” 

“Oh! Oh of course! I’m so sorry – it’s just that –“ 

“I know – it’s the hair.” She didn’t think going blonde altered her appearance significantly, but considering one of her notable features was the stark contrast between her rich, dark hair and her alabaster skin tones, maybe it was jarring for some. 

“Let me show you to your table. Ms. Chenoweth asked for a private one in the back, but she hasn’t arrived yet.” 

_She probably wants to make an entrance._

“I’m sorry ma’am?” he asked. 

“Nothing,” she replied, not realizing she had grumbled out loud. 

Within five minutes of being seated she heard a commotion, but didn't have to turn around to know Kristin had arrived. Whether in a restaurant, or alone in a hallway with nothing but a doorbell to amuse her, there was no "just walking in" for Kristin Chenoweth. She was effusively greeted with statements of support and expressions of relief she survived her kidnapping. 

“Oh thank you so much.” 

“You’re so sweet.” 

“Why that is so kind of you.” 

“Well, God bless you.” 

After those four, Idina tuned the rest out and stopped counting, figuring Kristin had over a hundred in stock. 

“Well, that’s a new look for you," the blonde said after the two hugged, Idina wincing when Kristin pressed against her still sore ribs. “Oh my heavens, are you OK?” Kristin asked. "Are you still having the headaches?"

“The headaches went away some time ago. I just overdid it in yoga class.” 

“Of course. So why’d ya do it?” 

“Overdo it in yoga class?” 

“No silly, the _hair_. Trying to look like your cartoon character?"

“I’m regretting this already.” 

“The dye job?” 

“No, lunch.” 

“Oh, I’m just teasing, it looks lovely on you.” 

“I wanted to see a new face in the mirror," Idina responded as they sat down, placing their drink orders with the waiter. "I felt like I needed to make some changes. I’ve never really done anything that radical with my hair and wanted to see what it would look like. So, why did you pick _this_ particular location at the last minute?” 

“Is it too upsetting? Is it the sign? Do you want to go somewhere else?” 

“No…I…no, no I don’t actually,” Idina responded after giving it more careful thought. “You know, I'd avoided coming back here, afraid it would bring back the horror and the nightmares, but now...I think I'm OK. I _have_ overcome what happened that night. I _did_ get back some of the control over my life I felt I lost." 

“The fact they’re breaking ground again,” Kristin said wistfully. “It feels like a re-birth, not just of the theater, but of - other things. I learned about the Oscorp thing literally thirty minutes before texting you, which is why I assumed you didn’t know yet. Maybe I overstepped my boundaries, but I thought it would be easier if someone was with you when you found out, so you could talk through it. Do you need to - ?” 

“No – not really. I’m good. And I mean that. But I’m not surprised by anything that man does. I'm sure he used his influence to break through whatever legal logjam was holding up reconstruction."

“And you really can’t do anything about him? You can’t tell anyone?” 

Idina shook her head. “I wish I could, but I don't have the right to risk anyone else's life or well-being other than my own. But, there may come a day…” 

“Well, anyway," Kristin interjected to change the tone of the conversation. "Order what you want and as much as you want, we’re being comped.” 

“Oh really? How did you manage that?” 

“Hey, _they_ offered! When you’re Broadway’s Sweetheart and were in dire danger, well, I guess people are so happy to still have you around they’ll do anything for you. Julie’s got a whole list of places that offered to comp me!” 

“What the fuck? I didn’t so much as get a free Starbucks latte after _my_ ordeal. What’s the real story? Are you giving blow jobs to all the maître d's in town? After all, you wouldn't even have to get on your knees.” 

“Stay classy, Dee, stay classy. No, I just didn’t crawl under a rock and hide after _my_ experience.” 

“I’d been shot - twice – thank you very much! I need an oxygen tank now because your swelled head is sucking all of the air out of the room. Don’t let that “Broadway’s Sweetheart” bullshit pump up that enormous ego anymore or I’ll start releasing transcripts of our fights during _Wicked_ and show the world just what kind of sweetheart you can be when you don't get your way.” 

“Go ahead. I’ll just say you’re jealous. Everyone out there already thinks we hate each other. That’ll be an easy sell.” 

“You know, you could actually give the appearance of not enjoying this as much as you are. Maybe act a little shell shocked or _something_.” 

As if on cue, Kristin’s face fell and she flushed. 

“Actually, Dee, that’s why I wanted to meet with you. I, uh, wanted to apologize to you.” 

For a rare moment, Idina was speechless, and when she spoke again, it was with a combination of surprise and anguish. 

“Apologize to _me_? My god, Kris, I was wanting to apologize to _you_! I was _desperate_ to apologize to you! But you never returned any of my calls or texts!” 

“I know, and I was wrong. I’m sorry. But that’s not the main reason I want to apologize.” 

“What else is there?” 

“I just wanted to say – I understand now. I understand why you were so angry that night, why you had such rage, why you were so out of your mind. That feeling that you described, of being so helpless, of thinking you were going to die, and not being able to do a fucking thing about it. I didn’t have any real frame of reference at the time for what you went through. I mean, I understood, but I really didn’t under _stand_ , not like I do now, if that makes any sense. I’m sorry, Dee, I’m sorry for not understanding.” 

As tears began to fall down Kristin’s cheeks, Idina reached across the table and held her hand, and began crying as well. 

“You know I didn’t mean any of those awful things I said to you, don’t you Kris?” 

Kristin sniffed, and nodded. “I know. I know, Sweetie. It’s funny, how many times over the course of those years did we sing “For Good” to each other? In San Francisco and in New York? It’s a song about forgiveness. I'd like to think we sang it to each other enough to cover a lifetime of forgiveness between the two of us.” 

They were silent for a minute before Kristin decided to break the somber mood, releasing Idina’s hand. 

“And besides, with your concert tour, my show, your TV pilot, _my_ concert tour coming up this fall and lasting till May…and now you’re actually going on the road with _If/Then?_ When would we have the chance to see each other again? On that _If/Then_ thing, aren’t you like, a little too big for regional theater?” 

“It’s only seven cities on the Western swing. I just wanted to go back to a time _before_ all of this madness started, before I met Norman Osborn, before that night at the Gershwin. I needed something – familiar, comfortable, and I love the show. They're negotiating with some of the others, James, Anthony, and Chanzie, to go with me. And, I'm looking for a house in LA. Taye's there so sharing Walker will be a lot easier. Cara's moving to Colorado with Mom, and doing the Western part of the tour keeps me in the area, keeps me working, AND keeps me out of New York. You know, I’m glad you called to set this up, Kris. I'm so happy to see you're OK. I was so scared for you, you have no idea...” 

“Thank Spider-Man and the Goblin Queen. I know I thanked them in the heat of the moment, and I said it during my interviews. But I wish I could see them again, and say thank you one more time, personally. I’m going to have to re-think my attitudes about the costumed people. There _are_ some good ones.” 

“Oh really? That’s a change for you. Of course, you still took a shot at the Goblin on the _Today_ show talking about her weight and saying what a “nasty thang” she was.” 

“Don’t take any of that at face value. I hope _she_ won't,” Kristin replied, her tone growing more solemn. “That was for show. Some of it was for the men out there who get off on female rivalries, on women fighting each other. They have certain expectations about our relationships so I played to it. The truth is, I don’t know if I could ever thank her, or him, enough. Honestly, at that moment, when I thought I was going to die, and Spider-Man grabbed that knife and _she_ ran in and grabbed me – I really thought she was an angel. As it turned out, a strange, foul mouthed green angel, but an angel nonetheless. 

“Other than Spider-Man, only she and I really know what she went through to save me, and the city. I _saw_ her take that shot in the chest and watched them try to crack her skull open, and you know what that brought back. I thought they’d killed her, and she'd died trying to save _me_. I was never so ready to…kill someone myself …as I was when I saw that man shoot her and hit her. That’s why I stabbed him with that bat blade thingy. I know we exchanged words when she took me back to my apartment, but a lot of that was burning off the emotion and anxiety. And to be honest, she just - just seemed to have that type of personality that I - I don’t know...But I think I’ll have to spend the rest of my life thanking her, thanking both of them.” 

“You, uh, you left all of that out of the interview I saw,” Idina said softly, looking down upon the table, her expression blank as she tried to conceal the emotion threatening to surface. 

“I’m going to have to leave a lot out of the interviews. I barely got home that night before Homeland Security visited me and told me I couldn't discuss _anything_ publically that went on from the moment those guys burst into the theater up to when the Goblin Queen flew me off Ellis Island. I told those bastards to speak to my lawyer from now on. 

"Dee, I sat there, on that bench, waiting for them to slit my throat or cut my head off! _My parents saw that!_ My friends! _**The whole fucking world!**_ And it's been played over and over on the internet. The whole world gets to see me helpless and weak and vulnerable and scared and humiliated as often as it wants. I have to go out there – _I have to take it back_ so that’s not how people see me. I've worked too long and too hard and given up too much for what I have now, for the control I have over my image. I've spent the last 20 years presenting one face to the world, the aw-shucks happy go lucky Christian country girl from Oklahoma who just can't believe she came to the Big City and became a Star! And then when life gets tough I just put it in God's hands! That's what they've seen, and that's what they're gonna keep seeing! 

“And the more I keep playing it light, the more I keep the comedy going and keep people thinking about me flirting with Spider-Man, or cat-fighting with that Goblin Queen character…that's how I've played it my whole career. There’s only a handful who know better, who've seen more, who've seen the pain and the weakness and the loneliness - my family, Denny, Marc... _you_. We spent so much time together during _Wicked_ , that intense, forced closeness for years - you saw everything. And I the same of you. Our souls were laid bare before each other. And maybe that’s par for the course for you, but NOT for me! Then there's all of those idiotic questions people ask over and over about _Wicked_ and whether or not we hate each other. No one who wasn’t there, who didn’t experience it themselves, could possibly understand. I’d just rather people think we avoid each other because we’re spurned gay lovers, than realize it’s sometimes too painful to be together because we’ve seen the very best...and the very worst...the other has to offer." 

“And we still see everything, don’t we?” Idina asked cautiously. 

“ _Yes_. Yes we do.” Kristin replied, distinctly and deliberately. 

There was a long, awkward silence, maintained under the guise of eating lunch. However, by desert and post-meal coffee time, some of the tension had drained away, and the devilish look on Kristin’s face suggested the conversation was going to take a surreal turn. 

“But you know,” she started, with a sly smile. “Maybe _you_ should give Spider-Man a call.” 

“ _Me? Spider-Man_? Are you fucking crazy? I thought you had him in _your_ sights the way you were talking on TV.” 

“Well, the idea _was_ interesting, a fling with a superhero. But - he’s really not my type. Way too rough around the edges and obnoxious. So go for it girl.” 

“Why the fuck would I do that? Superheroes aren’t in the phone book, you know. Besides, I...haven't...seen Spider-Man since he took me to the hospital that night months ago. He saves people's lives every day, hangs out with other super-powered people, so why should he remember me? Why would _I_ be anyone special to him? Besides, _one_ costumed character in my life was enough, thank you very much. I don’t do men with secrets anymore. And I seem to remember back in the day _you_ thought he was creepy.” 

“Which makes him **perfect** for you.” 

“Bitch.” 

“We all have secrets, Dee. Some are just better at keeping them than others. Yeah, he’s a little creepy and not nearly as funny as he thinks he is – but that's men in general. It's not hard to notice he's a much better man than Norman Osborn is or probably ever was. And on that note...I've got a couple more meetings today...but I had to see you before our lives took us in separate directions again." 

“I'm glad you did. Good luck at the Tonys this year. If you win, you’ll hear me cheering from Japan.” 

“Eh – let Kelli have it. It’s her sixth nomination. I have one, and she doesn’t deserve to be the Susan Lucci of the Tonys. We have the same mentor, you know, in Florence Birdwell, from Oklahoma City University. I’d like Florence to see her win, and then the old girl can go down in history as the mentor to two Tony Award Winners. Besides, I got something more important.” 

“What’s that?” 

“Another lesson. On not letting the things that matter the most slip away. I’m not sure why it’s a lesson I keep having reinforced. God’s way of keeping me humble, I suppose.” 

“Someone sure as hell has to.” 

“Ouch. You know, a lot of things have happened to you, a lot of…changes…in your life. You’ve had the highest of highs and lowest of lows. On the outside you come across as a total train wreck, but the fact you’ve made it this far after everything proves you’re a strong woman, Idina Menzel. And a damn good one, worthy of whatever good fortune comes your way. Don’t you dare let anyone tell you differently, not even _yourself_. I just hope and pray for your sake and Walker’s you find the peace and happiness you deserve. But, whatever you do, whatever choices you make – please be careful, and good luck.” 

“You too, Kris. You too.” 

After standing and embracing one last time, Idina said “Go ahead, Kris. I’d like to stop in the ladies room before leaving.” 

Kristin smiled and gave a little wave as she walked through the restaurant, past the maitre’d and out the door. As Idina watched the little blonde dynamo leave, she frowned, shook her head and sighed. 

_Never could keep any secrets from Kristin._

_Not more than 10 years ago._

_And not now._

  
Norman Osborn reviewed the raw, unedited footage from the Ellis Island security cameras on the viewscreen embedded in his desk. He obtained the footage, since he, as he was wont to do, made someone an offer they couldn’t refuse. 

_This could have been disastrous in the hands of someone like that fool Jameson. Neither law enforcement nor Homeland Security need to see it either. Still, she distinguished herself exceptionally well. I couldn't have been more proud of her, although she's still too susceptible to the influence of that webslinging idiot. Who would've thought after she'd stormed out of here the other day that a catastrophe would literally fall out of the sky and put her right where I wanted her?_

_Fortune may favor the prepared, but somedays...it truly is better to be lucky than good_. 

  


_Don’t let this moment be the last_. 

Spider-Man had assumed his usual position on the Empire State Building, feet and backside adhered to the spire. Idina stood close to him in full costume on the glider, boots magnetized within the stirrups, the gyros in hover mode. 

_There’s only us…there’s only this_. 

"Betcha never had a view of the city quite like this have ya?" he asked. "I used to take Mary Jane up here a lot. It was a cheap date, something unique, something only _I_ could give her, since weekends at the French Riviera were beyond my budget." 

"I hope she had a coat," Idina replied, referencing the distinct chill at this height. "If it wasn't for the compression layer in this costume my teeth would be chattering." 

"I thought the cold didn't bother - " 

"DON'T! How do you stand it in those chintzy pajamas, anyway?" 

"Nearly 20 years of this develops a pretty thick skin - in many ways. They sure didn’t waste any time did they?” Spider-Man asked, nodding towards the feverish re-construction activity at 432 Park Avenue, moving forward at all hours to open the tower for occupancy as soon as possible. “Just because we kept the tower from falling doesn’t solve the problem it represents." 

"That's why now, more than ever, I see the need for something like A BroaderWay. What these people did was evil and indefensible. But the anger and the hopelessness some of them must have felt - that's why it's so important to provide people - _children_ , whose day to day situation can be so shitty - something to give them a feeling of meaning and self-worth, a healthy, supportive outlet for the expression of their emotions, before that expression turns into something harmful." 

"In the meantime though, a lot more of these are going up, and the gap between classes keeps growing. New York City may become the world’s largest gated community, but ask Marie Antoniette how well guards and gates kept the French Revolution at bay.” 

“My _If/Then_ character’s solution was to build more low-moderate income housing as an offset. Doesn’t seem to work that way in real life.” 

“Not a problem _you_ really have to worry about, though, is it?” 

“Peter, please, let’s not go there.” They had danced around this topic before, the chasm between their economic statuses. She knew he understood she had worked hard for what she had, that it hadn’t come quickly or easily, and he bore her no genuine jealousy or resentment. But when moody, some of his anger and bitterness surfaced. She was amazed he controlled it as much as he did. She doubted she could if the situations were reversed. Yet, they both knew they were the products of the choices they made in their lives. It was…what it was. 

"So what’s up?” Spider-Man asked. “I was surprised to get your call, particularly one absent of anger, panic or desperation.” 

“Well, I’m way behind on publicity for my tour due to all that’s happened. I'm going to California to hit the West Coast talk show circuit and then it’s off to South Korea for the first leg. I’m going to spend at least a week packing, I’ve still got rehearsals, and I need to download a shit-ton of movies on the IPAD to keep Walker occupied. The entire summer is going to be nothing but travel and work and I wanted to touch base with you before leaving. Thanks for your help on that package. He should get it soon.” 

“My pleasure. Fortunately, I don’t think the Empire State University Agricultural Department is going to notice one of them has gone missing. So, are you taking your costume and equipment with you? You never know when crime will break out in South Korea, London, Cleveland – especially Cleveland. Wait a minute – does anyone even live in Cleveland anymore?” 

“I’ll find out in August. But yeah, right - can you imagine trying to explain that shit to TSA? Besides, the Goblin Queen is retiring for real this time. I’m dropping this shit off tomorrow in that safehouse - the glider, the costume, everything. And then I’m walking out and not going back.” 

“I hate to tell you, but that’s not going to be the end of it.” 

“I know, Peter. But this summer is going to be about me, my son, my tour, my career – everything _except_ Norman Osborn and what he’s done.” 

“So what _are_ you going to do about - ?” 

“I don’t know, Peter. I'll have to go to SHIELD eventually. I still have Agent Coulson’s card. Tell them I don’t want this anymore. I know Norman told me not to trust them, and I don’t completely, but I have to do it, for Walker's sake, for the sake of anyone I care about. I can't have this in my life anymore. But, I’m not doing anything until after my tour. I've lost way too much time already that I should have been devoting to my son and my career as a result of this lunacy, and I'm not losing anymore. ” 

"You know, I spent a lot of time trying to come up with a new name for you. My favorite was Supertramp, but then I found out an old rock band from the ‘70’s might have some infringement issues with that. In the back of my mind, I was almost hoping you’d stick with it. There aren’t enough good guys in the world. But, as much as I’ve tried and failed to give this life up, becoming a parent might be THE thing that would make it stick. That’s the greatest responsibility of all. And if I gave up being Spider-Man to become a father, I’d hope Uncle Ben would understand. I don’t blame you and I support your decision.” 

“I have no doubt he would, Peter, no doubt at all. I know what you mean about the world needing more heroes. But a major difference between you and me is that you got your powers by accident. An evil man did this to me deliberately, without my permission. I don’t want to compare what happened to me to something as horrific as rape, but I still feel violated. We really don’t know what the long term effects will be. You can’t tell me with 100% certainty this didn’t contribute to driving Norman crazy or killing Harry. And if I decide to have another child, I don’t want them being like Norman’s other children. Then there's the fact I have a certain amount of trouble with self-restraint. I’d probably blow my secret identity within the week. I’m too much of a public figure for this. People are following me around taking my picture all the fucking time. I’m genuinely surprised I haven’t seen a picture of me taking a shit show up on some girl’s Twitter page yet.” 

“All valid points. Look at the hysteria that occurred when you dyed your hair. God forbid you be revealed to be a Goblin.” 

“I was wondering when you’d say something about that. Yeah, everyone thought I was trying to look like Elsa.” 

“Not me. I thought you wanted to look more like Kristin.” 

“You are such a dick.” 

“I couldn't let you leave town without hearing _that_ at least one more time. I may ask you to record it so I can play it on a loop when I need a morale booster." 

“There are other things, too, Peter. As the Goblin Queen, I did things I _never_ thought I’d do. Beating people up - and liking it. I almost deliberately broke a man's neck, for Christ's sake, not because I had to because of some immediate danger to myself or someone else. He was beaten, helpless. He was in no position to hurt me. But - I just _wanted_ to. I’ve always detested violence. I never saw that as the solution to _anything_. It’s not how I grew up, it’s not what I’ve spent my life believing in, and it’s not what I want to teach my son. If I stay this way, there will always be the temptation to become that, and I feel I’ll lose myself. No offense, Peter, but I really don’t want to become part of your costumed fraternity.” 

“None taken. The union dues are pretty high, plus you'd be surprised how poor the dental plan is.” 

“I don’t know how you do it, Peter. Day in and day out. The evil you face regularly, the depravity, the misery. I don’t know how you’ve stayed sane through it all.” 

“There are many days I’m not sure I have. Mary Jane used to help me through it. “ 

“Have you talked to Mary Jane, lately?” 

“No.” 

“Why don’t you try? Did she leave on her own, or did you push her away?” 

“Do you want _me_ to start playing Dear Abby with _you_ on matters of the heart?” 

“No. Sorry.” 

“You know, the Goblin Queen will break a lot of young girls’ hearts if she retires, not to mention all those stud boys out there. She’s got potential suitors lined up around the block if social media and your experience with those two yuppies is to be believed.” 

“Pfft! Most of the men interested in the Goblin Queen are _not_ men Idina Menzel would be interested in.” 

“Well, I’m sure _Idina Menzel_ has potential suitors lining up as well. Or are you waiting for a handsome stranger in military fatigues to approach you in a park?” 

“Would that be so bad?” she asked sadly. 

_There’s only us…only tonight_. 

“Well, I suppose this is good-bye,” Spider-Man abruptly said as his legs tensed and he braced himself to jump off the spire. 

“Wait a minute!” she shouted, startled by the finality of his tone. “Why are you saying it like that? Why does this have to be "good-bye?" Why not a “see you later” or “break a leg," or "don’t fuck up _Let it Go_ like you did on New Year's” or something else obnoxious and insulting?” 

“You’re kidding, right?” Spider-Man asked as his legs relaxed, but still primed to jump off at a moment’s notice. “A _world_ tour with several sold out dates already? A TV show if your pilot gets picked up? _Frozen 2_? A new pop album? This is everything you’ve wanted since you were 16 years old." 

He sighed loudly as he looked again at 432 Park Avenue. 

“What is it, Peter?” 

“I see that building, Dee, and I think…it just reminds me of the life I could have had, the life I could have given to my Aunt and Uncle in return for all they did for me. Every once in a while it crosses my mind that if I had just stayed on that track…but for one stupid, selfish mistake…” 

“Peter, please - stop doing that to yourself. I can’t imagine the grief you go through, the burdens you bear and I won’t pretend I do. I don’t share Kris’ certainty of an Almighty God who looks out for everyone and has their lives mapped out for them, but I _do_ believe that we end up where we are supposed to be. I sometimes think my career trajectory is proof of that. But you – Peter Parker, I can honestly say I've never met anyone else whom I was as certain is fulfilling the destiny for which they were meant.” 

_I can’t control…my destiny_. 

“And what has it gotten me?” 

“Well, what is it you _want_ , Peter?” 

“Everything…I can’t have. You know, there'll be no keeping track of you. You’ll be a Hollywood glamor girl. You’ll move back to LA and wear out a path in the red carpet with all of the other luminaries. You’ll have your choice of anything you want. There will always be something – better – out there for you, Idina. Better than you can get here.” 

“I dare say the definition of “better” and _where_ I will find it is up to _me_ , don’t you?” 

_Forget regret…or life is yours to miss._

“How would I even find you?” 

“Look to the Western sky.” 

“I thought bad jokes were my forte.” 

“It wasn't a joke, Peter.” 

_I should tell you…_

_I should tell you…_

_We must let go…_. 

Idina watched as Spider-Man turned away, levered himself against the spire and leaped, clearing the observation deck and the rest of the building. She saw a thin webline appear and move in an upward arc with a figure attached to the end, another webline, another wide swing… 

And then he was gone. 

_No other path…no other way…_

  
**Next in Chapter 13 – What the Gods Have to Give** \- The Final Chapter. Finally.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Kristin has indeed been asked point-blank on talk shows if she and Idina hate each other. I’ve seen two of them and doubtless there are others.
> 
> There are slightly varying versions of “No Day but Today.” The one Idina sings during her concerts is modestly different than the version sung at the conclusion of _Rent_. Just an acknowledgement for sticklers out there. And I mixed in a couple of lines from another song from that musical.
> 
> Oh, and Spidey was right....Idina bought a house with new shack mate Aaron Lohr...in California. Darn - was kind of hoping for James Snyder. Except he was already married. So much for Jadina for real.


	13. What the Gods Have to Give

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> The End.

  
“So, what’s in it?” Norman Osborn asked his security chief as the latter cautiously placed a large box, wrapped in plain brown paper, upon his desk. After the reply, Osborn stood and studied the box. “Oh really? Interesting. Organic or artificial?” 

“Organic.” 

“Curious. Thank you, you can go now.” 

“I _really_ wish you had let us open and examine it. I think you’re taking an unwarranted risk.” 

Osborn looked at the handwriting on the label, which he recognized. The return address, written by the same hand, simply said: 

_Emerald City_. 

_Oz_.

“I’m not worried. You needn't even have scanned it. Once I saw the image of the wrapping I knew it would be harmless.” 

After the door shut upon his visitor’s departure, Osborn meticulously pried open the taped ends of the brown paper wrap and slid out the box. It was simple, white, and nondescript, with no lettering or pictures. He snapped the tape holding down the lid and opened it. 

A large pumpin sat in the midst of the packing material. Osborn placed his hand on it. Real indeed. 

He carefully picked it up and examined it. _Nice and well-shaped. I estimate approximately ten pounds. Didn’t think those were in season. Must be from a greenhouse._

Then the pumpkin exploded, expelling fibrous strands, seeds and a generous amount of “pumpkin guts” over his face and suit. He placed the remaining eviscerated shell on his desk and wiped his eyes. He saw a small object in the remains. A Wicked Witch of the West figurine smiled knowingly at him, holding a small, handwritten note that simply said “Maybe it’s the Wizard who should be afraid – of me!” 

Norman Osborn smiled. 

And then the Green Goblin laughed. 

  


Peter Parker staggered half asleep down the stairs of his apartment building and opened the door to greet the courier. 

“Parker?” the courier asked after Peter opened the door and stuck his head through, his eyes squinting as they struggled to adjust to the sunlight. Judging by the courier’s indifference, he obviously didn’t care whether he was talking to Peter Parker or Bugs Bunny. 

“Yeah. So, what’s that?” Peter asked, gesturing to the two large boxes at the courier’s feet. 

“I’m sure I don’t know.” 

“Who’s it from?” 

“Amazon, like it says.” 

“I just woke up, man. Gimme a break. I work the late shift. And I didn’t order anything from Amazon – so who did?” 

“I’m sure I don’t know that either,” the courier stated as he handed Peter the signature pad. 

“Well, OK, cranky pants,” Peter said as he signed for the boxes and returned the pad. “But, you might want to see the doctor to get that stick up your ass removed.” He grabbed the packages and shut the door before the courier could respond. 

_Hmmm. Nothing’s ticking_ he thought as he put his ear to each box while walking up the stairs. _Nothing appears to be rattling around either,_ he noted as he gently shook them. _And my spider-sense isn’t tingling. But then again, supervillains usually order their death rays and time bombs from Acme rather than Amazon_. 

He took the boxes into his meager kitchen and dining room combo, placed them on the table and slowly opened each one. As the contents were revealed, a sheepish grin crossed his face. 

_Wow. That’s a really nice one. A cradle and lots of refills, too_. 

He scanned the surface of his kitchen counter to determine the best spot to set his new Keurig machine. 

  


In costume and on the glider, Idina hovered high above Times Square as the clean-up continued. The Marquis was a total loss, reduced to a formidable pile of concrete, steel, and furniture remnants, a chain link fence separating the mountain of debris from the onslaught of foot traffic in the Square. Next to it, the Rodgers was rubble as well, and it was likely the Imperial could not be salvaged. Each theater had hosted shows for almost a century, even during the depths of New York City's decline. They had also survived the Great Theater Massacre of 1982, which claimed the other theaters on the block to make room for the Marquis. But they couldn't survive this new age of terror. 

_I know I told Peter I was never going back. But when I thought about getting on that plane to South Korea, I realized I wanted to experience **this** just one more time. The ability to fly... under **MY** own power, within **MY** control. All those times before...it was either as "Adele" or when the situation was desperate, when the Goblin Queen was needed. But now...I do this for **me**...as Idina._

As she was cloaked, she pulled off her mask, closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and felt the wind, unobstructed by any buildings, wash over her and through her hair. 

_I am one with the wind and sky_. 

She was high enough no one would hear as she finally had a chance to test one of Osborn’s claims. But what would the proper choice for the test be? Considering Norman's inspiration for the costume, the obvious empowerment song came to mind, although _If/Then_ 's eleven o'clock number also seemed appropriate. But, only _one_ song could truly capture this moment. 

As the glider hovered in place…she began to sing. 

_”It's funny how some distance, makes everything seem small_ , 

_”And the fears that once controlled me can’t get to me at all_ , 

_”We’ll see what I can do, to test the limits and break through_ , 

_“No right, no wrong, no rules for me! I’m free!”_

She belted the famous chorus, the chorus that had metaphorically taken her and her career to the stratosphere. Her voice sounded stronger, fuller than it had in years, her throat relieved of decades of wear and tear, and her lungs were bursting with additional capacity. 

_Norman was right. I get it now. I understand it now. **All of it!**_

_I wonder how high this thing will go?_

The glider ascended further into the sky. And Idina Menzel, singer, actress, mother...and the Goblin Queen, rose like the break of dawn. 

  
**FINIS**

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The story continues in [_The Strange and Lonely_](http://archiveofourown.org/works/6127105/chapters/14041759), which is in process.
> 
> As originally written, the Rodgers was not destroyed because it would be creatively repetitive to destroy another theater where Idina performed. However, upon revisiting New York and some of my locations, it became apparent if the Marquis was destroyed, _no way_ the Rodgers survives because it is literally almost attached to the Marquis. Probably nothing on the block would survive. Even if not completely flattened, as old as the Rodgers is, it probably wouldn't be economically feasible to salvage it. But I deliberately downplayed it since that dramatic ground has already been covered.
> 
> A super-powered Idina Menzel? Last year, if you told me someone was going to write a novel-length fanfic about “Idina as superhero,” I would have responded that was an idiotic idea and a waste of time. Not that an “Idina Menzel dates the Green Goblin” novel-length story was any less an idiotic idea and waste of time.
> 
> However, after the earlier story concluded, it was as if the characters themselves _demanded_ a follow-up. It became evident Norman Osborn _wasn’t_ done with Idina, and _she_ (as I’ve written her – like I say – I don’t know the woman) was still in pain, not done with healing from the last story’s trauma. It was going to take another event for her to obtain the necessary closure, but I wasn’t sure what it would be at first. In an embryonic version of this tale – Idina did not have super powers and Norman's daughter _was_ one of the primary antagonists as opposed to simply a red herring. And I had NO intention of Peter and Idina performing a careful, tentative “dance” throughout the story because it just seemed so obvious, trite, predictable and typical of fanfic at its most – fanficky. But after writing Chapter 2, it seemed the characters took over and _dictated_ how their relationship would unfold – regardless of what was planned, a clear example to me that characters, not plots, drive stories. 
> 
> Plus, I name dropped Kristin so many times in that last story I HAD to use her somehow in a subsequent one.
> 
> For those few of you who indulged my little prolonged therapy session, and particularly those who commented, I thank you very much. You have my sincere gratitude.


End file.
